A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “Can I go back to my room and gather my things?” the pup asked. “Can I try to find another pair of shoes?”

  “You can. But I assure you, Sephira knows where you live.”

  “How? Why? She doesn’t know anything about me, at least she didn’t before tonight.”

  Ethan sympathized with the pup. How many times had Sephira bested him by somehow knowing his every movement, his constant whereabouts? “Believe me, I understand. But she knows now who you are, and your room will be the first place she looks for you.”

  Salter’s expression curdled. “So, I’m supposed to walk out of the city and across the causeway wearing nothing on my feet?”

  Ethan grinned. “Be glad I caught you in July rather than January.”

  The pup didn’t appear to find much humor in this. He nodded toward the pistols. “How much is he paying you to retrieve those?”

  “Three pounds,” Ethan said.

  “I could have sold them for twice as much. Maybe more.”

  “Aye,” Ethan said. “I’m sure you could have.” After a moment’s consideration, he tossed Salter’s pistol to the lad before turning away and starting the long walk back to the home of Andrew Ellis. “But,” he called over his shoulder, “they’re not yours to sell.”

  Chapter

  TWO

  Unfortunately for Ethan, Andrew Ellis’s estate on Winter Street stood almost within sight of Sephira’s mansion, which was located at the south end of Summer Street. Ethan had known since the day he took on this inquiry that it would be even harder than usual to keep Sephira from interfering with his search for the pistols, simply by dint of how close she lived to the client. But still—whether out of bravery or foolishness he couldn’t say for sure—he had accepted the job anyway.

  He made his way from the Neck along the unpaved lane that fronted Boston’s Common, rather than following Orange Street back toward the South End. This allowed him to approach Ellis’s house from the west, rather than the east. If Sephira and her toughs were searching for him, he would see them coming.

  As he walked he felt the power of a spell hum in the road. At first he wondered if it was Mariz, perhaps casting a finding spell in an attempt to locate him. But in the next instant he realized the spell had come from farther off. If he had to guess, he would have said it came from the South End waterfront. He wondered if old Gavin Black, a sea captain and conjurer who had lived in the city for years, was casting spells. Or if perhaps there was a new conjurer in Boston. His eyes trained eastward, he walked on.

  The Ellis house, an imposing brick structure with a semicircular white portico in front, and a sloping lawn bounded by rich gardens, stood on the north side of Winter, halfway between the Common and Marlborough Street. Candlelight glowed in the windows; a warm breeze rustled the leaves of large elms growing in the yard, and whip-poor-wills sang overhead. Ethan followed a flagstone path to the door, glancing toward the street, and listening for Sephira and her men. Upon reaching the door, he rapped once with the brass lion’s-head knocker. After a short wait, the door opened to reveal an African servant wearing a white silk shirt and cravat, pale blue breeches, and a matching waistcoat.

  The man regarded him with an expression that bespoke, in equal parts, indifference and disapproval. It occurred to Ethan that his clothes must look rumpled and filthy from his struggle with Salter, although as usual, the thought came to him too late to rectify the matter.

  “Ethan Kaille to see Mister Ellis,” he said, hoping he sounded more dignified than he appeared.

  The servant looked him up and down once more. “A moment please.” He started to walk away, but stopped and glanced at Ethan again, seeming concerned that Ethan might enter the house. Or rob it. “Wait here,” he said, and shut the door.

  Ethan did not have to wait long. The door opened a second time, revealing the bulky figure of Andrew Ellis. He was dressed in a green silk suit with matching coat, breeches, and waistcoat—a ditto suit, as such sets were known. A pair of spectacles sat perched on his crooked nose. His hair was powdered and pulled back in a plait, accentuating his steep forehead and dark, wide-set eyes.

  “Mister Kaille,” he said, sounding surprised to see him. “To what do I—?”

  Ethan held up the dueling pistols, one in each hand.

  A smile split the attorney’s face. “You’ve found them!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Ellis took the weapons from him and started to walk back into the house, examining the pistols as he did. “Come in, come in,” he said over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought.

  Ethan removed his hat, closed the door, and followed his client through the foyer and a large sitting room into a smaller study, the walls of which were lined with bookshelves. The house smelled of bayberry—no spermaceti candles for a man of Ellis’s means—and some kind of savory stew. The aroma made Ethan’s stomach rumble.

  Ellis stopped in front of a writing desk on which burned an oil lamp, and eyed his weapons more closely. He brushed a small clump of dirt from one of the barrels, but then straightened and nodded.

  “Well, these seem to have come through their ordeal relatively well.” Facing Ethan once more, he asked, “What can you tell me about the thief?”

  “His name is Peter Salter, sir.”

  “Salter,” Ellis repeated. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I would have been surprised if you had, sir. He’s a street tough, a pup with little sense and even less ambition. But he won’t trouble you again.”

  He hoped this would satisfy Ellis. He assumed that, like most of the men who hired him, the attorney would want to see the thief dealt with harshly. Ethan felt certain that Salter would leave Boston rather than risk Sephira’s wrath or Sheriff Greenleaf’s hard justice. He was less sure that the pup would manage to stay out of trouble in whatever town he inhabited next, but that was not his concern. He had endured nearly fourteen years as a convict, and he had seen what Sephira did to the thieves who crossed her path. Salter was a fool and a ruffian; he was often in the streets on Pope’s Day, brawling with the North End gangs. But Ethan couldn’t bring himself to destroy the pup’s life over a pair of dueling pistols. He hoped Salter wouldn’t be so careless as to allow Sephira and her men to find him.

  “Very well,” Ellis said. He pulled a small pouch from a drawer in his desk. “I paid you fifteen shillings when I hired you. I believe that leaves me owing you two pounds and five.”

  Ethan nodded. “Aye, that’s my recollection as well.”

  The attorney counted out the coins, piling them carefully on the desk. When he finished, rather than picking up the coins and handing them to Ethan, he backed away from the desk, said, “There you are, Mister Kaille,” and gestured for Ethan to take them himself.

  Ethan thought this odd, to say the least. But after a moment’s hesitation, he crossed to the desk. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking his payment and pocketing the money without bothering to count it.

  “I hope that I will not require the services of a thieftaker in the future,” Ellis said, facing Ethan. “Once was quite enough.” A hint of amusement flickered in his features. “But if ever I should, I will not hesitate to engage you again.”

  “I’m grateful to you, sir.”

  Ellis led him from the study, back toward the front foyer. “Of course. If the opportunity arises, I’ll recommend you to my friends and colleagues as well.”

  They reached the door, and Ellis pulled it open. Ethan proffered a hand, but the attorney looked down at it, wrinkling his nose. “I think not, Mister Kaille. Forgive me. But with the smallpox broken out in the city, I feel it best that we part with but a civil word.”

  Ethan dropped his hand. “I understand, sir. In that case I’ll wish you a good evening and be on my way.”

  He replaced his hat and started down the path back toward Winter Street.

  “You think me overly cautious,” Ellis called to him.

  Ethan stopped, turned. “No, sir. But I fear that even
such precautions as these won’t save us from infection if this outbreak is anything like those of sixty-one or sixty-four.”

  Ellis walked out onto the portico, eyes wide with alarm. “Do you think it will be as bad as that?”

  “I don’t know,” Ethan said.

  “I pray it won’t.”

  “We all do, sir. Good night.” Ethan started away again.

  “Good night, Mister Kaille.”

  He walked some distance with his head down, his eyes fixed on the street. The only light came from the moon and stars overhead, and from candles burning inside the homes that lined the lane.

  So, had it not been for the soft scrape of a boot on cobblestone, Ethan would have had no warning at all. As it was, he barely had time to grab for his blade and push up his sleeve before hearing several sets of footsteps converging on him. Sephira’s men, he had time to think. Mariz will be with them.

  He had but an instant to decide whether he was in greater danger from the conjurer or from Nigel, Nap, and the other toughs. He slashed at his arm.

  “Tegimen ex cruore evocatum,” he said under his breath. Warding, conjured from blood. The conjuring rumbled in the cobblestones; his feet tingled with it. Uncle Reg winked into view next to him, his bright eyes avid, his brow furrowed.

  Rough, powerful hands took hold of him, pinning his arms to his sides. One of Sephira’s men tore his blade from his grasp. He struggled to break free and retrieve it, but to no avail. Nigel loomed before him, huge, teeth bared in a harsh grin. The tough hit him in the jaw, his fist as solid and heavy as a brick. Ethan tasted blood; his vision blurred.

  Ignis ex cruore evocatus! Fire, conjured from blood! He recited the conjuring in his mind, using the blood in his mouth to fuel the spell. Power pulsed a second time.

  Nigel staggered back, as did Gordon and Afton, who had been holding his arms and now lost their grip on him. But no flames appeared.

  “They are warded, Kaille,” Mariz said from the darkness. “We all are.”

  “What do you want, Sephira?” Ethan asked, ignoring the other conjurer.

  “I want those pistols,” she said. “I wasn’t amused by your little deception.”

  “Ellis has his pistols.”

  “In which case, you have his money. I’ll take that, instead.”

  Ethan shook his head. “I don’t think you will.”

  In spite of himself, Ethan had always enjoyed the sound of Sephira’s laughter. It was throaty, like her voice, and unrestrained. Too often, though, it was directed at him. As it was now.

  “How do you propose to stop us?” Sephira asked. “Mariz has rendered your magick harmless. Do you honestly believe you can fight off all of my men?”

  She had a point.

  “So much effort for two pounds,” Ethan said, stalling now, racking his brain for some way to escape with his nose unbroken and his hard-earned coin still in his pocket. “One would think you have one foot in the Almshouse.”

  “The money is of no concern. Surely you understand that, Ethan. But I don’t want you thinking that you can get away with such antics in the future. Shoes for pistols? You should know better.”

  Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but as he did, he saw something flash in front of him and off a bit to the right. It took him a second to realize that it was one of the lenses of Mariz’s spectacles catching the candle glow from a nearby house.

  An idea came to him.

  “Are you listening to me?” Sephira asked, sounding angry.

  “Of course I am. What was it you said?”

  He bit down hard on his cheek, drawing blood again.

  Velamentum ex cruore evocatum, he recited silently. Concealment, conjured from blood.

  The spell thrummed, like the string of a harp. Reg grinned at Ethan.

  “What did you do, Kaille?” asked Mariz, who, as the lone conjurer among Sephira’s men, was the one person other than Ethan who could have felt the spell.

  But by the time the words crossed Mariz’s lips, Ethan was already moving. He stooped, grabbed his blade, and while still in a crouch, ran forward past Nigel and straight toward the other conjurer. He kept his shoulder lowered and barreled into the man, knocking him off his feet. Mariz grunted as he sprawled onto the street; his knife clattered across the cobblestones.

  Ethan stumbled, but righted himself, a hand holding his hat in place, and ran on. He veered left and right, knowing that his spell would keep Sephira’s men from seeing him, but that his footsteps would give them some idea of where he was.

  A shot rang out, echoing across the lane. A bullet whistled past, too close for comfort. Reaching Marlborough Street, Ethan turned left. He could hear Sephira’s men pursuing him, and already his limp was growing more pronounced, his bad leg screaming. Still he ran, turning off of Marlborough at the next narrow lane and cutting down across Bishop’s Alley and into d’Acosta’s Pasture, a broad expanse of grazing land. Cows eyed him as he passed, his footfalls now muffled by the grass.

  He emerged from the lea onto Joliffe’s Lane, and from there followed back streets through the Cornhill section of the city. By the time he drew near to the Dowsing Rod, the tavern on Sudbury Street that he frequented, he felt reasonably sure Sephira and her toughs had broken off their pursuit. Even Sephira would think twice before stepping into a crowded tavern and hauling Ethan off for a beating. He wasn’t so foolish as to think that his escape would settle matters in any way; Sephira had a good memory and held tight to her grudges. But for tonight, at least, he was safe.

  He grinned in the darkness. Victories over Sephira were about as rare as audiences with His Majesty the King; he wanted to savor this one. He had money in his pocket, and his spirits were so high that not even the sight of British regulars patrolling the streets of the city was enough to dampen them.

  Nevertheless, as he passed the regulars, still concealed by his conjuring, he slowed, so as not to give himself away with a false step or the jangling of the coins in his pocket. He turned a corner and halted, the scene before him like cold water on his mood.

  A torch burned in a sconce mounted on one of the houses near the intersection of Hanover and Treamount streets, next door to the Orange Tree tavern and just a stone’s throw from the Dowsing Rod. And beside the torch, a red flag rose and fell lazily in the soft breeze blowing in off Boston Harbor. A man stood outside the house, leaning against one of the iron posts that lined the street.

  The red uniforms of the soldiers hadn’t darkened Ethan’s mood, but this red flag was a different matter. Smallpox. That was what it signified. The distemper had come to this residence, and those inside had chosen to remain in their home rather than be removed to the hospital in New Boston.

  The flag was a warning, a symbol of infection, of quarantine. Within this house dwells pestilence, it said. Fever, scarring, perhaps even death. These reside here now. Enter at your own risk. And if the red cloth wasn’t warning enough, the guard out front was there to keep away the concerned and the curious. No one could enter or leave, save a physician.

  The flag had been up for several days now, but it still made Ethan’s blood turn cold each time he saw it. He feared for Kannice Lester, who owned the Dowsing Rod, and who had been his lover for more than five years. He feared for those who frequented her tavern and who worked for her. And yes, he feared for himself. Smallpox was no trifle. The outbreak of 1764 had killed well over a hundred people, and those who were sickened but survived bore terrible scars on their faces and bodies. The practice of inoculating people against the distemper had proved somewhat effective, but it was an expensive process, one that few other than Boston’s wealthiest families could afford. And many remained leery of the science cited by physicians; using the disease to fight the disease seemed to make little sense. Despite advances in controlling the distemper, every person in the city lived in fear of another epidemic. Many fled to the countryside at the first report of an outbreak. He had known people to refuse newspapers, food, and other goods, out of fear that they ca
rried infection. Andrew Ellis’s unwillingness to shake his hand, or even place coins in his palm, was more typical than he cared to admit. If more red flags appeared in the city, panic would set in.

  Sobered, Ethan continued on to the tavern. Kannice, he knew, would be careful. But what if one or more of her patrons was less vigilant? If he had known a spell to ward Kannice and himself against the distemper, he would have cast it, but he wasn’t sure such conjurings even existed.

  Reaching the Dowser, he slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings. There he cut himself again and removed the concealment spell. Once he could be seen, he returned to the main avenue and entered the tavern.

  Upon stepping inside, he was greeted by the familiar din of laughter and conversations, and a melange of aromas: musty ale and savory stew, pipe smoke and freshly baked bread, and underlying it all, the faint, pungent smell of dozens of spermaceti candles. In spite of the apprehension that had gripped him upon seeing the red flag, he smiled, only to wince at the pain in his jaw from where Nigel had hit him. In his desperation to get away from Sephira, he had forgotten to heal himself. He considered retreating to the alley to cast another spell, but even as the thought came to him, the Dowsing Rod’s massive barkeep, Kelf Fingarin, caught his eye, grinned, and held up an empty tankard, a question in his eyes.

  He would heal himself later. He nodded and crossed to the bar.

  “Good evenin’, Ethan,” said Kelf, speaking so quickly that his words ran together into what would sound to most like an incomprehensible jumble.