He didn’t say a word, although the Latin for several painful spells leaped to mind.
“Fine,” she said. “Have your fun. Gant and Osborne worked together for years. They were with me for a time, as inseparable as Nigel and Nap. But they both claimed to be conjurers. As you know, I’m not an expert in such things, but it seemed to me that Osborne was the more talented of the two. I’m sure he was the more clever.”
“At some point they turned on you?” Ethan asked.
“That was Gant’s idea, or so I’m told. They secreted away a few items for themselves. Small things at first—worth a few pounds; no more. But with time they grew more ambitious.”
“And that’s when they stole the pearls?”
He knew from Sephira’s tight smile that whatever impulse led to her candor had passed.
“I won’t discuss that with you,” she said.
“I understand. Tell me this, though: Did you or your men kill Simon Gant?”
This time he didn’t expect her to answer. He merely wanted to see how she reacted to the question. But even looking for her response, he was surprised by what he saw in the scintilla of time before she managed to fix another defiant smile on her lovely face.
“Of course we didn’t,” she told him.
But her expression had said, Gant is dead? Not only had she not ordered the man killed, she hadn’t yet known of his murder.
Ethan stood, his knife still in hand, the blood on his arm beginning to dry. Reg hovered in the corner by Mariz, unseen by Sephira.
“I think it’s time I was leaving,” Ethan said.
“Yes, I agree. I’ll be waking my men, and I don’t think you want to be near here when I do.”
Still, neither of them moved.
“Thank you for telling me what you did,” Ethan said. “Why did you answer at all?”
“You mean aside from the fact that you were threatening me with your damned witchcraft?”
“Yes, aside from that.”
“A moment of weakness,” she said, sounding far more like herself. “Not one I’m likely to repeat.”
“Why, Sephira?”
She shrugged. “You said that Hutchinson intends to put you and the rest of your kind to death. I want that pleasure for myself. Now, go.”
Ethan grinned; so did she.
He descended the stairs and let himself out of the house, cutting over to the waterfront and winding through the heart of the South End, where he would be harder to find. Ethan knew that Sephira would send her men after him at the earliest opportunity. A few seconds of honesty and a shared grin couldn’t unmake years of hostility. He had forced his way into her home; she would have to punish him for that. He doubted that she would allow her men to kill him—she had told him in the past that she needed him around to conduct inquiries that lay beyond her talents—but Nigel, Nap, and the others would be none too gentle in conveying Sephira’s displeasure.
Chapter
TWENTY
Ethan expected Sephira and her men to begin their search for him at Henry’s cooperage; he would have been well advised to stay as far from Cooper’s Alley as possible. But the rank smell of Boston’s prison clung to his clothes and hair, like the stink of ale on a drunkard, and Ethan had no desire to have it following him around the city all day. He hurried up to his room, retrieved a pitcher, and took it down to the nearby street pump. Returning to his room with the icy water, he stripped down to his undergarments and put on a fresh pair of breeches. He didn’t dare take the time to pour the water into a cooking pot and start a fire, nor did he think it wise to conjure. Instead, before putting on a shirt, he stepped outside onto the landing at the top of the old wooden stairway and scrubbed his scalp and torso with the frigid water, his teeth chattering in the cold air. It was bracing to say the least, and it left him feeling more alert and ready to face what remained of the day.
He put on a fresh linen shirt and his other waistcoat. He didn’t have a second coat, but with everything else clean, including himself, the outer garment didn’t feel as grimy or smell quite so bad.
Taking care to see that his knife was on his belt and that the two remaining mullein leaves were in his pocket, Ethan left the room and started to pull the door shut. It was then he noticed the folded piece of parchment on the floor just inside the doorway. He stooped, snatched it up, and unfolded it. He recognized Diver’s hand right away, but it took him longer to decipher the scrawled words.
Have been contacted by buyer. Wants to meet. Need more instructions. Staying with D. Find me at Dowser.
—Derrey
Ethan crumpled the note in his hand and tossed it into the room, where it skittered across his table and fell to the floor. With all that had happened in the past day—Gant’s murder, his own arrest, his encounters with Hutchinson and Greenleaf and Sephira—he had forgotten about Diver and the task he had left to his friend. And he had failed to tell him that the pearls might not be in New Boston after all. He was glad to see that Diver had taken his warnings to heart and had chosen to stay with Deborah, and he couldn’t deny that he was excited to hear that their ruse had worked, that someone had contacted Diver. But he had wanted to keep a closer watch on his friend, and he feared that his negligence might have placed Diver in greater danger. For all he knew, this “buyer” was the conjurer who had killed Gant and the king’s soldiers.
He locked his door and headed toward the Dowsing Rod, walking as swiftly as his bad leg would allow, but keeping to side streets, and watching for any sign of Sephira’s toughs. He didn’t see any of them and soon reached the tavern. Entering the Dowser, he scanned the tables for Diver. The young man wasn’t there. Kannice was, though, and seeing him she rushed out from behind the bar and threw her arms around him.
“I’ve been worried sick,” she said, her lips brushing his neck.
“I’m all right.”
She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “That man—the doctor—he said you’d been arrested.”
“I was. I spent last night in the gaol as a guest of Sheriff Greenleaf.”
“How did you get away?”
“I haven’t yet,” Ethan said, keeping his voice down. “Thomas Hutchinson wants me to find Gant’s killer by morning. If I don’t, he’s threatened to hang every conjurer in the city.”
Kannice’s expression turned stony. “Well, that seems reasonable.”
“Where’s Diver?” Ethan asked.
She shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since last night.”
He swore under his breath. “I was afraid of that.”
“He was looking for you,” Kannice told him. “He was acting strangely, even for Derrey. Like he was scared.”
“He probably was. I’m afraid I might have gotten him in trouble.”
“This is Derrey: He’s perfectly capable of getting himself in trouble.”
“I know,” Ethan said. “But this time I did it for him. He’s trying to sell some pearls he doesn’t actually have, and he’s doing it because I asked him to. How long did he wait for me?”
“Most of the night,” she said. “I told him that you had been arrested, and that the doctor was trying to get you released. I tried to send him home, but he kept insisting that you would show up eventually and that he just had to wait. ‘Ethan’ll know what to do.’ That was what he kept saying. I sent him away when we closed.”
“I’m hoping he didn’t go to his room,” Ethan said. “Did he have a girl with him?”
“No, he was sitting alone, at the usual table.”
Ethan rubbed a hand over his face. “Damn. Have you seen him with a girl recently—red-haired, pretty?”
“I haven’t noticed. The way Derrey is, there’s always a new one, isn’t there? Even if I had seen her, I wouldn’t think much of it.”
“You’re sure?” Ethan asked. “Her name is Deborah.”
“Deborah Crane?”
Both of them turned. Kelf had stepped out of the kitchen, a cask of ale balanced on his massive shoulder.
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“You know her?” Ethan asked, crossing to the bar.
“Diver’s friend, you mean,” the barkeep said, the words running together.
“Yes.”
“Right. That’s her. Deborah Crane.”
“Do you know where she lives?” Ethan asked.
The big man put down the cask and thought for a moment. “Cornhill, I think. On one of them little streets off of King.” He frowned. “Pierce’s Alley!” he said suddenly, his face brightening. “That’s it. Can’t remember the number, but I know it’s on the alley.”
“How do you know so much about her?” Kannice asked.
The barkeep blushed to the tips of his ears. “Well, I might have been with her once or twice a while back. Before Derrey, of course.”
Kannice eyed him, looking doubtful. But Ethan reached across the bar and patted the big man’s shoulder.
“I’m grateful to you, Kelf,” Ethan said, and started toward the door.
“What if he comes back while you’re gone?” Kannice asked.
“Keep him here, no matter what he says. And put him upstairs, in one of the back rooms, where no one will think to look for him.”
Ethan ran from the Dowser to Cornhill. By the time he turned onto the narrow byway known as Pierce’s Alley, both his bad leg and his newly injured knee throbbed, and his lungs were burning. The lane was but a single block long, running between King Street and Dock Square, but Ethan didn’t have time to check every door on the street. He stopped in at a small grocery, assuming that it was the one shop on the lane most likely to see business from everyone in the neighborhood.
As he entered the store, an old woman behind the counter eyed him with manifest distrust. When he asked where he might find Deborah’s home, she scowled at him and called for her husband.
The man who emerged from the storeroom looked even more ancient than his wife. But he smiled at Ethan’s question and nodded with more exuberance than might have been wise.
“Oh, I know her,” he said. “Pretty thing; sweet as can be. I make a point of calling her ‘Miss Crane.’ She seems to like that. Makes her feel like a proper lady, I think.”
“Just give him the number, Walter,” the woman said.
Something in her voice made the man flinch.
“Twenty-seven,” he said, with considerably less enthusiasm. “It’s three buildings down toward King, on the other side of the lane. She lives upstairs with her sister.”
“Thank you.” Ethan nodded to the man and then to his wife, who scowled again. Back out on the street he limped to the building the man had described. At street level, it was a milliner’s shop. But a stairway at the side of the building led to a wooden door. Like Diver’s building this one was brick, the original structure no doubt having been burned in the fire of 1760. Ethan climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he tried again.
He heard no sound from within. He tried the door handle, but it was locked. Glancing down at the street to make sure that no one was watching, he drew his knife and pushed up his sleeve. To his surprise, there was still dried blood there. He had never conjured after cutting himself that last time at Sephira’s house. “Resera portam ex cruore evocatum,” he whispered, not bothering to cut himself again. Unlock door, conjured from blood. The latch clicked as Uncle Reg appeared at his side. Ethan pushed the door open and peered into the dark room. He hesitated before stepping inside.
A pale blue waistcoat that Ethan recognized as Diver’s lay over the arm of a chair, and a Monmouth cap that might well have been his, too, sat on the table beside it. But he saw nothing to indicate where Diver might have gone, or who he intended to meet. After looking around for another minute or two, he left the room, locked the door, and descended the stairs.
As he reached the street, he heard someone call out, “Mister Kaille!”
He spun, drew his knife, and dropped into a fighter’s crouch, all in one motion, all without thinking. Seeing the red-haired woman walking toward him, he straightened and slipped his blade back into its sheath.
“Miss Crane,” he said.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, halting in front of him. She sounded winded, and her cheeks were flushed. “I was just at the Dowsing Rod. The woman there told me that you had gone to my home to find Derrey. I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Do you know where he is?” he asked.
She shook her head and swallowed, still trying to catch her breath. Ethan wasn’t certain that he would have remembered the woman from their first brief meeting at Diver’s room; he’d had other matters on his mind, and she had left quickly. She was both taller and prettier than Ethan recalled. She stood an inch or two shorter than he. Her eyes were bright blue and she had a generous sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her straight nose. She wore a simple green gown and quilted petticoats beneath a scarlet woolen cape.
“I haven’t seen him since last night,” she said. “He said he was going to the Dowsing Rod to find you and that he’d be back later.”
It seemed to Ethan that the temperature around them dropped like a stone. “And he never came back?”
“No. I finally fell asleep and when I woke this morning, I was still alone.”
“Did he tell you anything else? Anything at all?”
She shook her head, her expression pained. “Very little.”
Of course. He had insisted on Diver’s discretion, and this one time his friend had done as he instructed.
“Did he say anything about someone he was supposed to meet? Aside from me, I mean.”
“He did say he had to meet someone—that he was doing it for you—but he told me nothing about her, either.”
Ethan felt a sudden tightness in his chest. “Her? It was a woman?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He had to resist the impulse to go back to Sephira’s home and smash it to pieces. What had she said to him just a short while before? You have friends, and I know who they are. Had she taken Diver as a prisoner before he even got there? Had she already killed him?
“Did he say it was Sephira Pryce?” Ethan asked, afraid to hear the woman’s answer.
“Miss Pryce?” Deborah repeated, sounding like that had been the last name she expected to hear. “Oh, no. He didn’t mention her at all.”
That stopped him short. “You’re sure?”
“I would have remembered if he had mentioned her. She’s a very important lady.”
How could he argue? “But who—?”
It came to him in a rush, stealing his breath. He had been staggeringly stupid for so long. And it was possible that his foolishness had cost Diver his life. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, he had told him. I won’t let anything happen to you. How could he have failed his friend so miserably?
“Mister Kaille?” Deborah said, leaning toward him, her forehead creasing with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Go upstairs,” Ethan said. “Don’t open your door for anyone other than Diver or me.”
“All right,” she said, wide-eyed and puzzled. “Do you know where he’s gone?”
“I have an idea, yes.”
He started away, heading toward Dock Square and the North End.
“Do you think he’s all right?” the woman called after him.
“I hope so,” he said without breaking stride.
* * *
The home of the sisters Osborne wasn’t far from Pierce’s Alley, but even running, his leg and knee aching, Ethan felt like it took hours to cover the distance. If Caleb Osborne was still alive, his daughters would know. They might well have been sheltering him. From the first day Ethan spoke to them, they had struck him as odd. Perhaps they had been hiding the truth from him all this time. Perhaps they had been working with their father to gain the riches he stole from Sephira. That would explain why they had been so reluctant to speak of Simon Gant. Not only did they fear the man, they also knew that their father intended to steal the pearls from him. They m
ight even have known that he intended to kill his old associate.
As he approached the worn wheelwright’s shop on Wood Lane, Ethan pulled his knife free and pushed up the sleeve of his coat. He wanted to be ready if Osborne was there. Pausing at the base of the dilapidated stairway, he cut himself, then faltered once more. He wanted to try a listening spell, but any conjurer in the North End would sense the power of it. A conjurer in the room above him might well determine from the casting just how close Ethan was. He started up the stairs, taking each step with painstaking care and wincing at every creak and crack of the ancient wood. When at last he reached the door, he half expected to see it crash open, revealing Caleb Osborne, knife in hand, blood welling from a fresh wound.
But nothing happened, and when Ethan pressed his ear to the side of the building, he heard not a sound within.
He tried the door handle. Locked. Knowing that he was taking a risk, he spoke the unlocking spell again, and at the sound of the lock tumbling, let himself into the Osborne sisters’ room. As before, the floor and furniture were littered with colorful cushions. Molly Osborne had been working her fingers to the bone. The faint aroma of cooked meat hung in the air, but otherwise Ethan saw nothing to suggest that anyone had been there for hours.
He would have liked to search the place—for the pearls, for any sign that Diver had been there, for evidence proving that Caleb Osborne was still alive. But he didn’t dare take the time. Now heedless of whatever noise he made, he slammed the door shut and charged back down the stairs, stumbling halfway down. He stopped in the middle of Wood Lane, unsure where he should go next, panic rising in his chest like a river in flood.
And in that instant it came to him. Hull Street. Gant’s old house. If Osborne had worked with Gant, he would know of the place, and so might his daughters.
He broke into a run once more, ignoring the pain in his leg and the cold sweat on his back. Cutting across the heart of the North End, he dodged carriages and chaises and sprinted past clusters of British regulars, on one occasion ignoring their calls for him to stop, and wondering if he was about to be shot in the back.
Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 27