Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by Jackson, D. B.

  He nodded, holding her gaze. At last he turned away and crossed to where Diver still lay. His skin felt warmer than it had earlier, but his face remained pallid, his breathing shallow.

  Ethan lifted the younger man and slung him over his shoulders. Both of his legs ached, and they nearly gave out beneath the added weight. But he staggered to the door and out into the cool, damp night. When he left the Osborne sisters, they had sunk to the floor beside their dead father. But they were still holding each other and seemed as much at peace as Ethan could expect under the circumstances.

  The old cart stood near the shack, its wheels both whole, but Ethan saw little advantage to pushing it through the streets of Boston. He kept Diver on his shoulders and made his way from Hull Street back through the North End and on toward the Dowsing Rod. His legs trembled with every step and his back and shoulders soon were screaming with exhaustion and the remembered pain of his stay in the gaol. But he didn’t stop.

  When regulars tried to stop him, asking what had happened to his friend, Ethan forced a smile and told them Diver was too drunk to walk on his own. The soldiers found that amusing, said something about Diver being typical of American colonists, and let them go. He used the same story three more times before reaching Kannice’s tavern.

  The crowd he found in the Dowser was typical for a Monday night. There were enough people there to keep Kannice and Kelf busy, but there were also a few empty tables. When Ethan staggered inside, the warm air and din of conversations and laughter were like a slap in the face. After his seemingly endless journey through the city streets, his legs buckled beneath him just within the door. He fell to his knees and allowed Diver to slide off his shoulders to the floor.

  The conversations of those nearest to him died away, and the silence crept back through the rest of the tavern, like a slow-moving fire.

  “I need help,” Ethan panted.

  A man called for Kannice. And another.

  A moment later she was there by Ethan’s side, also on her knees. Kelf stood over them.

  “What happened?” Kannice asked, concern etched in the lines around her eyes and mouth as she looked at Ethan’s bruises, the burn marks on his clothes, the gash at his eye. “Who did this?”

  “I haven’t time to explain it all,” Ethan told her. “There’s more I have to do. But Diver was shot.”

  She had been examining the wound on Ethan’s temple, but now she pulled back with a start. “Shot!”

  “Yes. In the chest.”

  He looked down as she did. There was a hole in Diver’s shirt and waistcoat, but very little blood.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t look—”

  “Listen to me.” He touched her chin gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. “He was shot in the chest. By all rights, he should be dead. You understand why he’s not?”

  She nodded.

  “He needs more attention, and I haven’t the skill or the time to help him. The bullet is still in him; I think he needs to see a surgeon.”

  “The one who was here,” Kannice said, one step ahead of him.

  “Yes. William Rickman. He’s probably back on board the Launceston. You’ll need to get word—”

  “I know.” Her eyes held his for the length of a single breath. “He’ll be all right. I’ll see to it. Go do whatever you have to.”

  Ethan forced himself back to his feet, his gut hurting where Osborne had kicked him. He staggered, and might well have fallen to the floor had Kelf not caught hold of his shoulder with a massive hand.

  “You sure you don’t want t’ sit awhile and eat somethin’, Ethan?” Kelf asked, the words running together as always.

  “I’m sure. But thank you anyway.”

  “Come back as soon as you can,” Kannice said, giving his hand a squeeze.

  Ethan turned and pulled the door open, taking one last look back at Diver. Kelf had bent over and taken the young man in his arms. He straightened, lifting Diver with such ease, one might have thought the young man weighed nothing at all. Ethan knew all too well that he didn’t. Confident that his friend would be cared for, he stepped once more into the night air and started back the way he had just come. His first choice would have been to go to Thomas Hutchinson’s chambers, but this late in the evening the lieutenant governor would already be back at his estate in Milton. Greenleaf’s house was some distance to the south, and he wasn’t certain that he wanted to show up at the man’s door after dark, lest it give the sheriff just the excuse he needed to shoot him.

  This had all started with Geoffrey Brower coming to his room. It seemed to Ethan that it should end with him going back to Brower’s door. He followed Middle Street into the heart of the North End, passing many of the same groups of regulars he had seen not long before. Most showed no sign of recognizing him, but one soldier shouted to him as he hurried past, “Where’s your drunk friend?”

  “Sleeping it off!” Ethan called back, not breaking stride.

  The soldier and his companions laughed. Ethan was surprised to realize that he had come to hate them.

  He reached the Brower house a short time later, his legs sore and weak. This time it was an African servant who answered the door at Geoffrey and Bett’s house. He had Ethan wait at the door until Bett came to greet him.

  She said nothing at first except to send the servant for Geoffrey, but she flinched as she took in his various wounds, the state of his clothes, perhaps even the weariness in his eyes.

  “You should see a doctor,” she said.

  “I will,” he said. “But these matters can’t wait.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  Ethan surprised himself by managing to smile. “Enjoy what? Being beaten, burned, shot at?”

  “Your work? I was asking if you enjoy it enough to deal with…” She indicated his clothes and face with a vague wave of her hand. “With all of this.”

  He wanted to tell her that he did; saying anything other than “yes” felt like a surrender in their years-long feud. But he was too sore, too weary, and her question cut too close to the bone. “Ask me tomorrow, Bett,” he said at last. “I’ll be able to answer you then.”

  “Ethan!”

  Geoffrey strode into view, dressed impeccably as always. His face fell when he saw Ethan’s state.

  “Good God! What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you everything I can,” Ethan said. “But you need to get messages to Sheriff Greenleaf, Lieutenant Colonel Dalrymple, and, if possible, the lieutenant governor. I know who’s responsible for the deaths of all those soldiers as well as for the murder of Simon Gant. I also know where they live.”

  “They?” Geoffrey repeated. “There’s more than one of them?”

  “They’re the daughters of Caleb Osborne, who was one of the men we thought had died aboard the Graystone.”

  Geoffrey frowned. “Thought had…” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “I know. As I said, I’ll explain everything. But I don’t know how much time we have. They may try to leave the city, and believe me when I tell you that my life depends on them not getting away.”

  “Of course,” Brower said. “I’ll send word immediately to the sheriff and Colonel Dalrymple. The lieutenant governor will be a more difficult matter, but we’ll inform him as soon as possible.” He started back into the house. “I’ll pen messages right away.”

  “Thank you, Geoffrey.”

  Brower raised a hand as he walked off. Ethan looked at Bett again and took a long breath. Their interaction had always been strained, and tonight he was too exhausted to make any effort at civility. “I can wait out here,” he said, leaning back against one of the marble columns.

  “No,” she said. “Come inside. Sit. When was the last time you ate something?”

  Ethan’s laugh surprised even him. “I couldn’t tell you. It feels like days.”

  Bett took his hand, something she hadn’t done since they were children, and led him into the dining room. She spoke in a low
voice to another of their servants, a young woman with brown curls that framed a plain, pale face. As the girl hurried off, Bett poured Ethan a glass of Madeira.

  She placed it in front of him and sat at the end of the table, watching him as he took a sip. “Should I call a doctor for you? You really do look terrible.”

  “I’ll be all right. Thank you, though.”

  He took another sip, feeling self-conscious under his sister’s gaze. Neither said anything more. Eventually the servant returned with a platter of bread, cheese, and apples. Ethan took some bread and cheese, but ate slowly. He wasn’t as hungry as he should have been given how much time had passed since his last meal.

  From the back of the house he heard the opening and closing of a door, and a minute later Geoffrey joined them in the dining room.

  “The messages are off,” he said. “There’s nothing to do now but wait.” He sat, looking hard at Ethan. “I need you to explain all of this to me. I know I don’t understand much about—” He paused, his gaze flicking toward Bett. “About conjuring,” he said at last, stumbling over the word. “But I want to understand what I saw on the ship.”

  “Of course.” But Ethan hesitated, his eyes fixed on the food in front of him. Speaking of spellmaking in front of Bett was never easy, and he wondered how she would react to hearing of the conjurings worked by the Osborne sisters.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. She stood and stepped away from the table. “I’m going to check on George. I think I would prefer that he didn’t walk in on the middle of this conversation.” She paused at the door. “Take care of yourself, Ethan.”

  “Thank you, Bett.”

  Once she had left, Ethan began to tell Geoffrey all that he had learned in the past few days. He had mentioned the pearls the last time they spoke, but at that time he hadn’t known that Osborne still lived. So he explained all of it again, describing as best he could all the spells that had been cast, answering questions whenever Geoffrey interrupted him, and telling him all that he remembered of those frenzied moments in the shack on Hull Street.

  For some time after he finished his tale, Geoffrey sat unmoving, watching Ethan.

  “I don’t know whether to thank you for all you’ve done, or to ban you from this house and demand that you never return,” he said, his glare smoldering in the candlelight.

  Ethan stared back at him, unsure of what he had done to earn such a response. “I don’t understand. I didn’t—”

  “It’s not a matter of what you did or didn’t do,” Geoffrey said. “But if this power you wield can give and take life with such ease…” He shook his head. “How can such a thing not be evil?”

  “I carry a knife on my belt,” Ethan said. “I can take a life with it. Does that make the knife evil? Or does the question of good or evil fall to the man holding the blade?”

  Geoffrey sat back, his eyebrows raised. Before he could answer, there came a knock at his door. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Excuse me.”

  He left the room, only to return seconds later with Stephen Greenleaf in tow.

  “Kaille,” the sheriff said, his lip curling. “I figured you had to be behind this.”

  “You should be happy, Sheriff,” Ethan said, taking another bite of bread and cheese. “Caleb Osborne is dead.”

  “I don’t even know who Caleb Osborne is. Unless you mean the Osborne who worked for Miss Pryce all those years ago.”

  “One and the same.” Ethan stood. “We should go back and talk to his daughters.”

  “Talk to them?” Geoffrey asked.

  “You heard what I told you,” Ethan said. “They didn’t know they had killed anyone. We need to place them in the colonel’s custody, but I believe they should be shown mercy. They were ruled by a tyrant, a cruel and violent man who threatened and abused them. They intended only to help him get away from the army.”

  “Hardly admirable,” Greenleaf said, glancing at Geoffrey.

  “I agree. But I’m not sure theirs was a hanging offense.”

  Another knock sounded at the door.

  “That will be Colonel Dalrymple,” Geoffrey said, and left the room once more.

  “You look like you took a beating,” Greenleaf said, sounding far too pleased. “All this for ten pounds. Are you sure it’s worth it?”

  Ethan took one last sip of wine, stood, and left the room without bothering to answer. Geoffrey stood at the door talking to Dalrymple. They both turned at Ethan’s approach.

  “Where is it we’re going, Mister Kaille?” the colonel asked.

  “Hull Street,” Ethan said. “That’s where Osborne and his daughters held me earlier today.”

  Dalrymple’s brow furrowed. “Osborne. Why do I know that name?”

  “He was on the Graystone, sir,” Ethan said. “A member of the Twenty-ninth Regiment.”

  “I thought Gant was the only man who deserted in time.”

  Geoffrey and Ethan shared a quick look.

  “Apparently Osborne got away, too,” Ethan said.

  “Yes, all right,” Dalrymple said, sounding impatient. “Let’s be on our way, then.”

  The colonel had a dozen men with him, and as it turned out the sheriff had brought two of his ruffians as well, both of whom carried torches. No doubt every man there would have been shocked to learn that if Hester and Molly Osborne decided to fight them, a contingent of men twice as large wouldn’t be enough to overpower them. But Ethan kept this to himself.

  They set out northward toward Hull Street, Ethan walking with Geoffrey, the sheriff, and Dalrymple. The soldiers and Greenleaf’s men followed. It was a cold, still night and clouds still blanketed the sky. The streets were mostly empty, but those people they did encounter gave the company a wide berth.

  They walked at a brisk pace and soon reached the coppersmith’s shop. Resisting an urge to draw his knife and push up his sleeve, Ethan led the men around to the grassy clearing behind the shop. Seeing the shack, his heart sank. The window was dark.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s here, Kaille,” the sheriff said, a smug grin on his face.

  Ethan didn’t answer, but he held out a hand to one of Greenleaf’s men. “Give me your torch.”

  The man glanced at the sheriff, who hesitated before nodding.

  Ethan walked to the shack and pulled the door open. The room remained much as he had left it. Osborne lay in the center of the floor, drying blood pooling beneath his wounded arm, his eyes still wide, his mouth still hanging open.

  Greenleaf joined him in the doorway. “That’s Osborne?”

  “Aye,” Ethan said.

  “And he killed Gant?”

  “His daughters did. But they did so because he made them, because they were terrified of him.”

  “And who killed him?”

  “They did.”

  Greenleaf glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “Are you sure of that?”

  “I was there when they did it. If they hadn’t, I’d be dead.”

  The sheriff twisted his mouth. “Remind me to thank them,” he said, the words dripping with irony. “What now? Where else could they be?”

  “They live on Wood Lane. Perhaps they’ve gone back there.”

  “This place isn’t theirs?”

  “No,” Ethan said. He descended the steps and trudged through the trampled grass. “This was Simon Gant’s house,” he said over his shoulder.

  Ethan led the men back through the streets of the North End, to the wheelwright’s shop at fourteen Wood Lane. They went around to the side of the building and Ethan looked up the stairs. To his relief, the small window of the Osborne sisters’ room glowed with candlelight.

  “This way,” he said, starting up the stairs. This time he did pull out his knife, but he kept it out of sight. He knew better than to think that he could conjure without drawing attention to himself and his spellmaking abilities. But after seeing what these women could do with their conjuring powers, he refused to meet them without a blade in hand.

&nbs
p; Dalrymple, Greenleaf, and Brower followed him up the stairs. The others remained on the street.

  Reaching the door, Ethan knocked once. When no one answered, he tried the door handle. The door swung open, and Ethan swore at the sight and stench that greeted him.

  The two women dangled from the rafters of the room, nooses at their necks, chairs overturned beneath their feet, their dresses soiled where their bladders and bowels had released.

  “Good Lord!” Geoffrey said, breathing the words.

  Hester stared straight ahead, her mouth open much as her father’s had been. But Molly’s eyes were closed, and she appeared almost to be smiling. In the short time Ethan had known her he had never seen her look more at peace.

  He stepped into the room, his throat tight. There were cushions everywhere; a half-completed pillow sat on the floor by one of the beds along with several spools of thread.

  On the table in the center of the room, he found a piece of parchment and, beside it, a pen and an inkwell. He picked up the note and looked at the others.

  “What does it say?” the colonel asked.

  “‘We’re sorry.’”

  “That’s all?” Greenleaf said.

  Ethan held the note out to him.

  The sheriff didn’t bother to reach for it. “Well, that’s very convenient for you, isn’t it?” But Ethan could tell that the man’s heart wasn’t in the accusation.

  “He was with me at my house for some time before you arrived, Sheriff,” Geoffrey said.

  “Aye,” Ethan said. “And before that I brought Derrey Jervis to the Dowsing Rod. He had been with me at the shack on Hull Street. He was wounded there.”

  Dalrymple crossed to where Ethan stood and took the note from him. He examined it briefly before turning to Greenleaf. “Sheriff, do you honestly believe that Kaille had a hand in the deaths of these women? It looks a good deal like suicide to me.”

  For just a second Ethan thought that the sheriff might try to blame him for everything. But the man’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “I agree,” he said. “They killed themselves. As to the rest…” He shrugged. “I suppose their note is proof enough of their guilt.”