Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by Jackson, D. B.

  “Should I put him to sleep?” Ethan asked, his voice low.

  The old ghost grinned at him.

  Ethan laid the blade of his knife against his arm.

  “Don’t do it.”

  Gant stepped from the shadows, his pistol trained on Ethan’s chest.

  “You won’t hit me from there,” Ethan said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Where are the pearls, Gant? Is that what you were looking for at the Manufactory?”

  Gant cursed and took a step toward him, looking very much like a man who wanted to put a bullet through Ethan’s heart. “Leave it alone, Kaille! This is none o’ your concern!”

  “Why are you using a gun, Gant?” Ethan asked. “You’re a conjurer, just like I am. We both know it.”

  The man shook his head, looking for all his brawn like a little boy. “I don’t like that magicking stuff.” He held up the pistol, but quickly aimed it at Ethan again. “I prefer this. Now those pearls—”

  “Are Sephira’s. And she’s not going to be happy when she finds out that you’re still in the city looking for them.”

  “You leave Sephira t’ me.”

  Ethan laughed. “Well, now I get it. You’re not stupid, you’re insane.”

  “You watch what you say t’ me, Kaille,” Gant said, growling the warning. “You’re a pest, nothin’ more. But that don’t mean I won’t track you down and kill you.”

  Ethan had heard enough. He cut a quick short gash in his forearm and as blood began to well from the wound he said, “Ambure ex cruore—”

  It would have been a scalding spell, one that he had used in the past to great effect. But before he could get all the Latin out, he saw Gant’s pistol hand move fractionally.

  He dove to his left, pushing off with his good leg, just as he saw white flame leap from the gun and heard the report echo off the buildings around him. The bullet whistled past, but Ethan landed awkwardly on his elbow and knee.

  “Ambure ex cruore evocatum!” he said through gritted teeth, even as he heard Gant running again. Scald conjured from blood!

  Gant howled with pain, but he was already a good distance away. Ethan knew that he would keep running. It would take him too long to reload his pistol, and he had made it clear that he didn’t wish to engage Ethan in a battle of spells.

  Ethan sat up, flexed his elbow, and tried to straighten his leg. The elbow hurt, but seemed to be merely bruised. His knee was another matter. He didn’t think he had broken anything, but the kneepan felt as though it was in the wrong position, and every movement of his leg sent barbs of white-hot pain up his leg. He dragged himself out of the middle of the lane, and once he was on the safe side of the iron posts lining the street, cut himself once more, cursing the raw aching of his forearm.

  Rubbing blood on his knee, he said, “Remedium ex cruore evocatum.” Healing, conjured from blood. The spell sang in the cobblestones and flowed from his hands into his leg. At first, as the kneepan shifted back into its normal position, the pain worsened. For an instant Ethan thought he might pass out, and he had to bite back the bile rising in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, and concentrated on his conjuring, doing his best to keep the flow of power steady. After some time, the agony passed, and the pain in his leg began to subside. He cut himself once more, and repeated the spell.

  When he could bend his leg without grinding his teeth in agony, he climbed to his feet and began to limp back home. He thought about trying another finding spell, just to make certain that Gant hadn’t decided to come back and try to shoot him again. But his arm hurt, and he was weary from the spells he had cast. He wanted only to go home and sleep.

  He should have known better than to think that was even possible. When Ethan turned onto Cooper’s Alley, he spotted Yellow-hair standing by the door to Henry’s shop. He held a pistol in his hand. When had everyone started carrying firearms? Seeing Ethan, he grinned.

  Ethan had stopped, and now he grasped his knife and started to back away. All concerns about his raw forearm had fled his mind. He didn’t think he could run far, but with a spell he might be able to escape. Nigel seemed to read his thoughts.

  “You don’t want to do that,” the big man said with a shake of his head.

  “Why not?”

  Nigel indicated Henry’s shop with the barrel of his pistol. “She’s in there, waitin’ for you.”

  Henry.

  “If she’s hurt him, if she’s so much as disturbed a hair on his head, I’ll kill her. And I’ll kill you, too.”

  The man’s grin returned. “Get inside.”

  Ethan knew he had no choice. He walked to the door and reached for the handle.

  “Hold on,” Nigel said, walking toward him, his hand outstretched. “Give me your knife.”

  Ethan cut his arm. “Try to take it from me,” he said.

  Yellow-hair stopped in midstride. Ethan opened the shop door and stepped inside.

  Henry was seated by his workbench, grinning broadly, the gap in his teeth making him look like a small child. Sephira sat next to him, a disarming smile on her flawless, deceitful face. Nap stood near the door.

  “Ethan!” Sephira said as he walked in. Her gaze flicked to the cut on his arm, and her smile tightened. “How nice to see you. I was just telling your charming friend here that you and I have been rivals—friendly rivals, of course—for near to eight years now. I can’t believe so much time has gone by.”

  “Are you all right, Henry?” Ethan asked, though upon reflection he realized that he had never seen the cooper look happier. Sephira was famous and beautiful and she had come to his shop. Henry had no idea of how much danger he was in, and probably wouldn’t have believed it if Ethan had tried to tell him.

  “I’m fine.” He looked at the bleeding cut on Ethan’s arm and his face fell. “What happened to your arm?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Henry seemed more than happy to accept this. “Mith Prythe—” His cheeks colored and he cast a sheepish glance her way. “I mean Thephira,” he went on, his lisp even more pronounced than usual. “She knows a guy—in France no less—who might want my barrels for his wine!”

  Ethan looked at Sephira, who returned his gaze steadily, without any sign that she felt ashamed for lying to the old man. “That’s very exciting.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to France. But if I can’t go, at least my barrels can.”

  “That’s right,” Ethan said. “Listen, Henry. Sephira and I have some business to discuss. So we’re going to let you get back to work now, all right?”

  “There’s no need for that.” Sephira purred the words. “We can talk about it right here. And I’m sure we’re not disturbing Henry. Are we?” She flashed a dazzling smile.

  Henry just shook his head. Ethan glanced over at Nap, who had turned away to hide the smirk on his face.

  “All right,” he said, looking at Sephira again. “What are you doing here?”

  “Nigel mentioned that he saw you a short time ago,” Sephira said. “And that you were somewhere you didn’t belong. I wanted to impress upon you how important it is that you not go there—or anywhere like it—again.”

  She might as well have been holding a blade to Henry’s throat.

  Even Henry seemed to understand. The joy Ethan had seen on his face upon entering the shop was gone now, and he was looking back and forth between Ethan and Sephira.

  “I’ve tried asking you for information,” Ethan said. “That hasn’t worked, and so I’ve had to look into things on my own. If you care to answer my questions, I’ll be more than happy to stay out of your way.”

  “The things you want to know don’t concern you. You’re interfering in matters that you don’t understand. People could get hurt.”

  People. Henry. Kannice. Ethan knew that she wouldn’t hesitate to harm or kill anyone who meant anything to him. His arm itched where the blood from his cut had begun to dry. He would have loved an excuse to set her hair on fire with a conjuring,
but Henry didn’t know that he was a speller, and Ethan wasn’t willing to cast in front of the old cooper unless he had no choice.

  “Simon Gant just told me much the same thing,” Ethan said. “None of you seem to understand that I’ve been hired to look into these matters. That makes them my concern. And you should take your own warnings to heart. People could get hurt. Remember that.”

  “You saw Gant?” she asked, trying too hard to sound uninterested.

  “Yes.”

  “Where? When?”

  Ethan said nothing.

  She sat watching him for another moment, a smile frozen on her lips. There was no amusement at all in her eyes, though, and when she stood and moved toward the door, her movements were taut, as if it was all she could do to leave the shop without lashing out.

  “You’re a fool, Ethan,” she said, not bothering to look back at him. “After all these years, it shouldn’t surprise me. But it always does.”

  She let herself out, with Nap close behind. They left the door open.

  “She didn’t even say good-bye,” Henry whispered, staring after her.

  “I’m sorry, Henry.”

  The old man shook his head. “No, I am. I should have remembered the stuff she’s done to you. She didn’t come for me; she came for you.” He turned to Ethan. “She was threatening to hurt me, wasn’t she?”

  Ethan grimaced. “Aye, she was.”

  Henry looked out the door again. “Well, don’t worry about me. Do what you have to do, whatever it is.”

  He gripped the man’s shoulder. “I will. Thank you.” He hobbled to the doorway, intending to go up to his room.

  “You hurt your leg?” Henry asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Well, you should do something about that arm,” Henry called after him. “You shouldn’t just let it bleed like that.”

  Chapter

  SIXTEEN

  He wanted to tear Sephira’s home apart stone by stone. He wanted to find Simon Gant and cast a spell that would shatter every bone in the man’s body. He wanted to wring Geoffrey Brower’s neck for getting him involved in this matter in the first place.

  Instead, he paced the floors of his tiny room, despite the ache in his bad leg and knee. He felt useless and sensed the hours ticking away. Worst of all, he had the feeling that he was missing something obvious. He knew that Osborne had helped Gant steal the pearls seven years back. And now he knew for certain that Sephira was after the smuggled goods, too, not that there had ever been any doubt.

  He had let Gant get away, but he had Diver working on luring the man back out into the open. Thinking of this, he sighed. As tired as he was, he needed to conjure again so that he could tell Diver that the pearls might not be in New Boston after all. This time, at least, he didn’t have to cut himself. Using the water in his washbasin, he cast an illusion spell, and sent an image of himself back to Diver’s room. But when he looked at the room through the eyes of his conjuring, he found that Diver was already gone.

  Vowing to try again later in the day, he let the conjuring end and resumed his pacing.

  An idea came to him and he halted once more. He knew that neither Gant nor Sephira would help him. But what about Osborne? Ethan wasn’t sure that it was even possible. But perhaps there was someone who could help him find out.

  “Veni ad me.” Come to me.

  Power thrummed. Uncle Reg appeared before him, glowing like a newly risen moon, his eyes gleaming in the dim room.

  “You were a conjurer,” Ethan said. “And when you died you took this form. Is that right?”

  The old ghost nodded.

  “Is that what happens to all conjurers when they die? Do they all go to wherever it is you are?”

  Reg nodded again, more slowly this time.

  “And can they be summoned? I can call for you; we both know that. But can I summon any ghost if I know his name?”

  The ghost’s expression darkened, his thick eyebrows bunching, his nostrils flaring. He crossed his arms over his chest, his fists clenched, and he shook his head.

  “No?” Ethan stared back at him, gauging what he saw on the man’s face. “You’re telling me that it shouldn’t be done,” he said at length. “Not that it can’t. Isn’t that so?”

  Reg didn’t move.

  “This is important. Osborne should know where the pearls are, and he might know a good deal else that will help me get to Gant.”

  Ethan reached first for his knife, but reconsidered and chose to use mullein instead. He couldn’t say why. Most of the time he conjured with whatever was at hand, without giving much thought to how the source for his spells matched the casting itself; it might have been one of the reasons why he was not yet as accomplished a conjurer as Janna. On occasion, though, he gave more careful consideration to his selection of a source. And sometimes, as now, he went on instinct. He was about to summon an unknown and potentially hostile ghost. Somehow using blood for this struck him as risky. Mullein had protective properties; it seemed the wiser choice.

  He pulled out nine leaves. It was a lot for any spell, but this was more complicated spellmaking than Ethan usually did.

  Turning back to Reg, he found the ghost still glaring at him in that same defiant stance.

  “I know you don’t like this. I’m sorry. Truly. But I’m going to do it, and I need you to help me speak with him.”

  Reg didn’t shake his head in refusal; Ethan probably couldn’t expect any more acquiescence than that.

  “Provoco te, Caleb Osborne, ex regno mortuorum ex verbasco.” I summon thee, Caleb Osborne, from the realm of the dead, conjured from mullein.

  Even having chosen to use so many leaves, even knowing that this was a deeper casting than he had attempted in years, Ethan was startled by the might of his conjuring. He felt the pulse in his bones; the entire building seemed to shake. Power hummed in the walls and the floor; it reverberated within his mind until he felt that he would never again hear any other sound. Every conjurer in Boston would know that a potent spell had been cast, but he couldn’t help that.

  And yet, nothing else happened. No ghost appeared. Ethan glanced toward Reg, but the old man wasn’t looking at him. Rather, he was turning his head from side to side, perhaps searching for Osborne’s shade. He appeared troubled, even frightened. Ethan had never seen him like this.

  “What’s happening?” Ethan asked.

  Reg held up a hand to silence him, though he continued to search. At last he faced Ethan again and shook his head.

  “It didn’t work?” Ethan asked, incredulous. “But I felt the conjuring. That was one of the most powerful spells I’ve ever cast.”

  Reg shook his head again.

  “So a ghost can refuse a summons from a conjurer if he isn’t linked the way we are.”

  The ghost shrugged, appearing as confused as Ethan felt.

  Ethan nearly gave up then. That was what Reg wanted him to do. But another thought came to him. There had been a third conjurer on the Graystone. Jonathan Sharpe had been younger than both Gant and Osborne. Maybe he had been less skilled as a conjurer and thus would be less able to resist Ethan’s summons.

  He took more mullein from his pouch, leaving him with enough for only one more minor spell. He would have have to buy more from Janna, and soon.

  “There was one other conjurer on the ship,” he told Reg. “I’m going to try summoning him.”

  Reg scowled.

  “Provoco te, Jonathan Sharpe, ex regno mortuorum ex verbasco.” I summon thee, Jonathan Sharpe, from the realm of the dead, conjured from mullein.

  This spell echoed through the building as powerfully as had the first. The old ghost began to look around again, but almost immediately looked back to Ethan, his gleaming eyes as wide as moons.

  And at the same time, a second glowing figure took form beside him: a young man, both familiar and strange. Ethan recognized the long hair and fleshy, thick features from the corpse he had seen on Castle William. But that wasn’t the same
as knowing a man in this ghostly form. The shade of Jonathan Sharpe towered over Reg, and over Ethan as well. His eyes were similar to those of the old ghost, but his body glowed with an aqua hue. He wore the uniform of a British regular, but as far as Ethan could see, he didn’t carry a weapon. Which was fortunate, because he regarded Ethan with manifest hostility and even took a menacing step toward him. Ethan resisted the urge to back away, knowing—or at least hoping—that the ghost couldn’t harm him.

  “My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said. “I summoned you because I’m trying to find the cause of your death and that of every other man on the Graystone. Can you help me?”

  The ghost seemed not to hear him. He turned toward Reg and advanced on the old man. Reg fell back and drew his broadsword, something Ethan had never seen him do.

  Sharpe’s ghost faltered.

  “Sharpe!” Ethan said. “Look at me!”

  The shade faced him once more.

  “Did you know Caleb Osborne and Simon Gant?”

  Sharpe eyed him, looking confused. Finally, he nodded.

  “And you knew about the pearls?”

  The ghost’s expression turned guarded. He offered no response. “I think they’re the reason you were killed. I think that Gant attacked the ship with that spell so that he wouldn’t have to share them with Osborne.”

  Sharpe shook his head, an expression of contempt on his face. Even in death, he remained loyal to his friends. Ethan couldn’t help thinking there was something noble in that.

  “They’re hidden somewhere in the city, aren’t they?”

  No answer.

  “Do you know what kind of conjuring killed you, what kind of spell it was?”

  The ghost dragged a finger across his throat, a grim smile on his lips.

  “A killing spell. Yes, that’s very helpful.”

  Sharpe’s smile melted away, leaving him looking terribly young. His eyes fixed on Ethan’s, he placed his hand over his heart and then made a fist.

  Ethan nodded. The spell had attacked their hearts, squeezing them so that they stopped beating. That was why the orange glow from Ethan’s revela potestatem spell had spread outward from the chests of the soldiers on which it worked. “I understand,” he said. “I’m sorry.”