Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by Jackson, D. B.

  “Elisha Brown!” came the answering cry, followed by more cheers and renewed singing.

  Kannice stepped out from behind the bar and put her fists on her hips. “Tom, get down from there before you fall and dent my floor with your skull!” But even she was grinning.

  Tom looked at her sheepishly and climbed back down.

  Kannice turned and spotted Ethan in the doorway. She canted her head to the side, grimacing and shaking her head. She walked over to him and reached up to his swollen jaw, wincing.

  “What have you done now?” she asked.

  Ethan shrugged. “I found a man I’d been looking for.”

  “Well, aren’t you the clever one,” she said archly. She smiled to soften the words. “Come on, I’ll get you some food and a maybe a raw steak for that face.”

  “The food will be enough, thank you,” Ethan said, letting her lead him to the bar. “What’s all this about Elisha Brown?”

  Kannice’s eyes danced. “He and a bunch of others are living in the Manufactory on Treamount. When the British commander ordered him and his friends to give up the building for the regulars, he refused. Barricaded himself inside. He’s in there still.”

  “And the regulars?”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, some are on the Common, others are in Faneuil Hall and the Town House. A few are back down at the wharves.” Her grin returned. “But they’re not in the Manufactory.”

  “That’s a dangerous game to be playing with the British army,” Ethan said.

  She sobered. “I know,” she said, so that only he could hear. “But it’s given people here in town something to celebrate.”

  Kelf placed a bowl of chowder and an ale in front of Ethan. “You’ve looked better,” the big man said.

  “My thanks, Kelf.”

  “Who was this man you found?” Kannice asked as Kelf moved down the bar to serve some ales.

  “Simon Gant, the one I mentioned to you last night.”

  “What did he want with you?”

  “He wants me to stop looking for him,” Ethan said. “But I still think he might have murdered every man on the Graystone, and he very nearly killed the conjurer Sephira has working for her now.”

  She frowned. “Wait. You mean he’s a speller, and he beat you with his fists?”

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Frightening is more like it,” Kannice said. “If he can kill every man on that ship, what’s to keep him from killing you any time he pleases?”

  Ethan had no answer.

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  Kannice’s question occupied his thoughts throughout the night. He slept poorly again, his dreams darkened once more by what he assumed were imagined bursts of power that seemed to reverberate through every bone in his body.

  He woke to the first gray light of dawn, feeling more exhausted than he had when he lay down the night before, but knowing that he wouldn’t get back to sleep. The five days Hutchinson had given him were slipping away; he needed to find Simon Gant. After lying awake for several moments, he rolled out of bed, dressed silently, and managed to leave the room without waking Kannice.

  His face still hurt from the beating Gant had given him and the skin over his bruises felt tight and tender. The muscles in his back and legs and arms ached. Hard though it was to credit, he knew that he would have felt even worse if he hadn’t cast his healing spell the night before. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was getting too old for thieftaking. Worse, he wondered how he would make a living if ever he decided that in fact he was.

  Clouds covered the sky again, heavier than they had been two days before. A stubborn wind blew over the city from the west, carrying the scent of rain and the promise of a cold, dreary day. Ethan made his way back to the Common, where canvas tents blanketed the rolling terrain. The soldiers were up and milling about, and thin tendrils of gray-blue smoke from a hundred cooking fires drifted across the camp.

  As Ethan drew near the first of the tents, a regular armed with a musket and bayonet blocked his way, demanding to know what business he had with the king’s soldiers. Ethan told him he had come to see Lieutenant Senhouse, but the man didn’t know the name. When Ethan explained that Senhouse served on the Launceston, the man regarded him with contempt. He might as well have said that Senhouse was with the French army.

  “Ya mean he’s a navy man?” the soldier said, his voice high, his words just barely comprehensible through his Irish brogue.

  “Didn’t any of the naval officers come ashore yesterday?”

  “Look around ya, man. This here’s an army camp. Th’ navy boys are on their ships, an’ good riddance t’ them.”

  “What about William Rickman. He’s a doctor, also with the Launceston. But—”

  “Ya’d have t’ ask someone else,” the man said.

  Ethan stared at the ground, trying to recall the names of the officers he had met at Castle William.

  “Preston,” he said, looking up again. “Thomas Preston.”

  The soldier’s expression darkened. “Ya mean Captain Preston.”

  “Aye, forgive me. Captain Preston. I’d like to speak with him. Please.”

  Ethan thought the soldier might refuse. But after staring at him for another few seconds, he turned and started off toward the center of the camp. Ethan followed.

  Ethan had remembered the captain’s name, but until he spotted the man standing with several of his regulars, he hadn’t been sure that he would recognize him. Preston was the tall, gaunt-cheeked soldier whose rough manner Ethan had found so off-putting at the fort.

  The young soldier marched Ethan right up to the officer.

  “Yar pardon, Captain, but this man says he knows ya an’ needs a word.”

  Preston looked Ethan up and down, his small eyes narrowed. “You were at Castle William,” he said, just as Ethan was starting to wonder if the man would remember him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain’s expression soured. “All right. The rest of you go off and … and do somethin’. We need a moment alone.”

  The regulars regarded Ethan with unconcealed curiosity, but moved off as Preston had instructed.

  “What was your name again?” Preston asked.

  “Ethan Kaille, sir.”

  “Right. Kaille. You’re the thieftaker the customs boys brought in to find out what happened to the Graystone.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know yet?”

  Ethan almost said something about knowing who was responsible for the deaths aboard the ship, but again he heard Gant’s denial, spoken through the illusion he had conjured. More, he saw the way Gant’s illusion had stopped moving. Gant, he realized, had been too shocked by the accusation to maintain his conjuring. Could he have been unaware of what his spell had done?

  “I’m making progress,” Ethan told the captain at last. “But I need a bit of help from you.”

  “Those bruises on your face—I don’ remember those from before.”

  “No, sir. I got them from a man named Simon Gant.”

  Preston’s eyes narrowed again. But before he could say anything, another young regular approached him and saluted.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Dalrymple requests your presence, sir.”

  Preston frowned. “Aye, I’m sure he does,” he said under his breath. Then, so the soldier could hear, he said, “Tell him I’ll be along presently.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man saluted, turned smartly, and left them.

  “Walk with me, Kaille.”

  Ethan fell in step with the man.

  “That name,” Preston said, as they wound their way past regulars and small fires. “Gant—it’s familiar to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ethan said. “He was one of yours. He’s the man from the Graystone who deserted before the ship was—before the men died.”

  “I see. And you want us to help you find him. Perhaps exact a bit of revenge for the beating he ga
ve you.”

  Ethan bristled, but swallowed the first denial that leapt to mind. “This isn’t about revenge,” he said, after composing himself. “I believe he had something to do with what happened to the Graystone. That’s why he beat me.”

  Preston halted and faced him. “Are you a military man, Kaille?”

  “I served on the Stirling Castle at Toulon, under Captain Cooper. My father was an officer.”

  “Then you might have some small idea of what it is we’re trying to do here.” He made a sweeping gesture with an open hand. “Look around you. I’m still trying to billet my men, and in the meantime we’re having to make do with a camp that’s barely secure, in a city that’s only nominally under control.”

  Ethan wasn’t sure that he would have described Boston in such terms. He knew, though, that the Crown and Parliament had been shaken by the summer’s riots and the continued agitation led by Adams, Otis, and Boston’s other Whigs.

  “You’re worried about finding one deserter,” Preston went on. “I’m trying to house these men and thus prevent a hundred more desertions. I can’t be searching the city for a single man.”

  Ethan glared. “Even if that man might have had a hand in killing dozens of your regulars?”

  “Even so,” Preston said. “We’re not here to wet-nurse the colonies. This is an occupation. You’re the thieftaker. You find him. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He tipped his hat, and started away again.

  Ethan let him go, but he didn’t leave the camp. Preston was right in one thing: He was a thieftaker. Some of these men had served with Gant; perhaps a few of them knew something of his past.

  He started to pick his way through the clusters of tents and fire circles, asking, “Has anyone seen Simon Gant?”

  At first, his question was met with blank stares or wary head shakes. A few men claimed—sincerely, it seemed—to have seen Gant within the last day, and they tried to direct Ethan to a different part of the camp.

  The response of one older man, however, drew Ethan’s interest. Ethan had just mentioned Gant to a group of regulars standing around a dying fire. None of these men knew anything about him. But Ethan happened to catch a glimpse of a soldier with a weathered, lined face, who overheard Ethan’s inquiry and after casting a sharp look in Ethan’s direction, deliberately averted his gaze and began to walk away.

  Ethan thanked the young soldiers and hurried after the older man.

  “You there!” he called, but the man didn’t slow his pace or look back.

  “I have questions for you!”

  No response.

  “Helping a deserter is a court-martial offense, isn’t that right? Do I need to find an officer?”

  A few nearby regulars heard this and looked from Ethan to the man he pursued. The older soldier stopped at last. His shoulders dropped a bit and he turned to face Ethan.

  “I didn’ help him,” he said, glancing at the other regulars.

  “In that case, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  The soldier scratched his stubbly chin, his eyes fixed on Ethan. “What do you want t’ know?”

  “Anything you can tell me.”

  A taunting smile curved the man’s lips. “Simon do that t’ you?” he asked, pointing to Ethan’s bruises.

  “Would that surprise you?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “What’s your name?” Ethan asked.

  “Corporal Jonathan Fowler,” the man answered with some reluctance.

  “I’m Ethan Kaille. I’m a thieftaker here in Boston.”

  “That figures,” Fowler said.

  “What do you mean?”

  The soldier shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Let me decide that,” Ethan said. “Why does it figure that I’m a thieftaker?”

  Fowler’s mouth twisted to the side, and he stared off over the camp. “Simon’s a friend. I wouldn’t tell ya nothin’ if he was here still. But desertin’…” He shook his head. “The man’s an idiot.”

  Ethan waited for the corporal to say more.

  “All the time I knew him—and that’s been a while now, since we fought the French—he would talk about this bit of treasure he had put away. That’s what he called it. Treasure. Like he was some privateer sailin’ the Barbary Coast.”

  “Did he tell you where it came from?”

  “He tried to be all mysterious about it. But eventually he got around to tellin’ me that he stole it from someone he worked with. You, probably.”

  “Me?” Ethan said, frowning.

  “Well, at some point he mentioned a thieftaker. So I just assumed…”

  “Did he ever give you a name. Pryce, maybe? Sephira Pryce?”

  “Sephira? A woman?” A dry laugh escaped the man, like a grunt. “Well, that explains a lot.”

  “What does it explain?”

  Fowler shook his head, the faint smile lingering on his face. “The bastard. The bloody, cowardly bastard.” He scratched his chin again and let out another laugh. “Aye, it could have been this woman. I seem t’ remember the name Pryce coming up once or twice. But he never gave a Christian name, and he definitely never let on that it was a woman. He always talked about how dangerous this person was, how he’d risked his bloody neck stealin’ this treasure of his.” He shook his head once more. “And now I find out it was from a woman.”

  Ethan almost told him that Sephira was no one to be trifled with, and that he himself always kept a wary eye on the streets to make certain that Sephira and her men weren’t coming for him. But for now he was content to let Fowler think the worst of Simon Gant. It seemed the best way to keep him talking.

  “What else did he tell you about this treasure of his?” he asked. “Do you know what it is, or where he’s got it hidden?”

  Fowler didn’t answer right away. Ethan could see him working out the math in his head, figuring the possible value of whatever information he possessed.

  “Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it? The where and the what, as it were. Without that, you’ve got nothin’, do ya?”

  “What do you want?” Ethan asked.

  Fowler grinned. “Half.”

  “How do I know what you have to tell me is worth half?”

  “Ya don’t. But without me you’ve got nothin’. So no matter what it is, you’re better off splittin’ it than not.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ethan said. “If you knew enough, you would have already found his riches for yourself. But you don’t know much of importance. Or maybe you know all too well how risky it would be to try to steal Gant’s treasure out from under him. Either way, half is too much. I’ll give you a quarter.”

  Fowler shook his head, an exaggerated frown on his face. “No, that’s—”

  “All right,” Ethan said, turning and starting away. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Now wait a minute!”

  Ethan walked without looking back.

  Before long he heard the man hurrying after him. Fowler caught up with him and grabbed his arm.

  “Hold on!”

  Ethan stopped and faced him once more.

  “A third,” the man said.

  “A quarter. And if you don’t let go of my arm, I’m going to break your nose in front of all your friends.”

  Fowler straightened, but he released his grip on Ethan’s arm. “Fine. A quarter.”

  Ethan nodded. “Done. What and where?”

  “I’m not exactly too sure of the where. But the what is more than enough t’ make up for that.” He leaned in closer, his breath stinking of the previous night’s whiskey. “Pearls!” he whispered. “Gobs of them!”

  “Pearls,” Ethan repeated to himself.

  “That’s right. Enough that you’d never have t’ work again. Even if ya gave me a third.”

  “A quarter,” Ethan said absently. He remembered hearing, back when he first returned to Boston from the Caribbean, of a stolen shipment of pearls. Much of what he heard came from whispers in the street or
the back of a tavern, because the pearls were taken not from a merchant or gem trader, but from a smuggler who had no recourse with the customs commissioners or the sheriff. He didn’t recall anyone linking the theft to Sephira, but that meant nothing. Even then, she was skilled at taking credit when she wanted it and avoiding blame when she didn’t.

  Pearls were valuable enough to draw Sephira’s interest. They were surely dear enough to drive a man like Gant to kill.

  “What else do you know?” Ethan asked.

  “What else do ya need?”

  “He never told you anything about where he hid them?”

  Fowler shook his head. “I don’t think he trusted me that much. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “That I believe,” Ethan said. “Very well. If I find the pearls, and I can sell them or get a reward for returning them, you’ll get a quarter.” It was an easy bargain to make, since Ethan had little interest in finding the pearls. Fowler didn’t need to know that, though.

  The soldier’s grin returned. “Don’t try t’ cross me, Kaille. I’m paid t’ carry a musket, and I don’t think much trouble would come of usin’ it on a man like you.”

  “Probably not,” Ethan said. Before Fowler could walk away, Ethan asked, “Did you ever see Gant with Caleb Osborne or Jonathan Sharpe?”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “How do you know them?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Aye,” Fowler said. “Now that ya mention it, they was thick as thieves, those three.”

  “My thanks,” Ethan said.

  He left Fowler there and headed back to the Crow’s Nest. He needed to have another talk with Dunc. When he reached the run-down tavern, though, the door was locked. Ethan rapped hard on the faded wood and waited. After a few minutes he knocked a second time.

  “Open up, Dunc!” he called. “You wouldn’t want me to do anything to damage the place.”

  Seconds later, he heard a bolt thrown and the door opened just enough for the Scotsman to stare out with one eye.