A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “He has struggled with that, Mister Kaille, I assure you. Secrecy does not come easily to him. But in this case he has been forced to consider whether the truth might be so … unsettling to the families that a small omission is the greater balm.”

  Perhaps the warden had a point. It wasn’t a choice Ethan would have wanted to make.

  “I know it’s been but a few hours, but have you learned anything yet?” Gardiner asked.

  “Yes. I know now that your sexton was right: Yours is not the lone burying ground to have been violated.” He nodded once to the man and limped toward the School Street gate. “I’ll send word when I know more.”

  Gardiner offered no response. When Ethan reached the street, the warden was still standing just as he had been, gazing after Caner and the others.

  Ethan was already considering how he might contrive to speak once more with Mister Rowan, perhaps at the family estate. There was more to their tale than either the father or daughter had let on, and he believed that before he finished this inquiry he would need to learn what it was. For the time being, though, he had other avenues to explore.

  He followed Queen Street past the courthouse and the Old Meeting House, before continuing onto King Street, which took him by the Town Hall. At Merchant’s Row, he turned north. As he threaded his way through the crowds walking to and from Faneuil Hall, however, he caught sight of an all-too-familiar shock of yellow hair. Nigel. Nap, Gordon, and Mariz couldn’t have been far away. Ethan kept his head down, as he followed the edge of the lane closest to Wentworth’s Wharf, hoping Sephira’s toughs wouldn’t see him. This once, luck was on his side. He reached Ann Street without incident and crossed Mill Creek into the North End.

  The first street after the creek was a narrow byway called Paddy’s Alley. And at the southern corner of the lane, a stone’s throw from the wharves and shipyards, stood a run-down tavern called the Crow’s Nest.

  If the resurrectionists intended to sell the body parts they had stolen, it was possible they would eventually find their way here.

  The Crow’s Nest was about as different from the Dowsing Rod as a publick house could be. Where Kannice maintained a strict prohibition against illegal activities, Joseph Duncan, the current proprietor of the Crow’s Nest, could not have remained in business were it not for the illicit trades—whoring, smuggling, and the buying and selling of pilfered goods—that went on under his roof.

  Reaching the tavern, Ethan pushed through the door into a dimly lit great room that smelled of stale ale and tobacco. A dozen or so men sat at tables, speaking in low tones, and several more stood at the bar, trying hard to look like they were just there for a drink. All of them turned toward the door as Ethan walked in, but few spared him more than a perfunctory glance.

  One who did was a small, dark-haired man by the bar, who held a pipe clenched between yellowed teeth. His cheeks were pitted and scarred from a bout of smallpox. He marked Ethan’s approach the way a sparrow might watch a feral cat.

  “Good day, Dunc,” Ethan said, joining the man at the bar.

  “Kaille,” Duncan said, sounding even less welcoming than Janna usually did. “What do you want?”

  He spoke with a Scottish brogue, and with the pipe in his mouth his accent was nigh impenetrable.

  “I just have a few questions, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Every time you come to me with questions, I seem to end up with with a broken nose or a blackened eye. I think I’ll pass this time.”

  Ethan nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “Well, good,” Dunc said, sounding surprised. “It’s not that—”

  “Of course,” Ethan went on, dropping his voice, “if you won’t help me out, I’ll have no choice but to tell every fence and cloyer in Boston that you did. Starting with Sephira.”

  Dunc stared back at him, puffing so hard on his pipe that the leaf in his bowl glowed like a brand, and pale smoke billowed around his head. “I don’t think you will,” he said. “You’re no nose. That’s something herself might do, but you’ve never been as mean you make yourself out to be.”

  “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Aye. Don’t think too much of it. I still haven’t forgiven you for almost burning down my place.”

  Ethan grinned, but quickly turned serious again. “I really do need to ask you some questions, Dunc,” he whispered, “and while I might not be a nose, I am still a speller. And my conjuring can cause all kinds of mischief.”

  Dunc eyed him still, looking like he’d just sucked on a lemon. At last he gave a single curt nod.

  “My thanks,” Ethan said, keeping his voice low. He slid a threepenny bit onto the bar. “An ale,” he said to the barkeep, a lanky man with overlarge eyes and a crooked nose. Ethan had never learned his name.

  The barkeep filled a tankard for him.

  Ethan sipped it, and nearly spit it out. After forcing down this one mouthful, he said to Dunc, “This is swill. You should serve the Kent pale that Kannice gets.”

  “People don’t come in here for the food or drink,” Dunc said with a glare. “Now what is it you want?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you’d want me to buy a drink, linger a bit, make it look like I’m doing something other than wringing information out of you.”

  Dunc paled. After a moment, he signaled for an ale as well.

  “Have you heard anyone in here mention that they’ve taken to stripping graves in the last week or two?”

  “What?” Dunc asked, making no effort to keep his voice down.

  “Resurrectionists,” Ethan said in a whisper. “Grave robbers.”

  Dunc pulled the pipe from his mouth. “No,” he said, his cheeks turning red. “I’ve heard nothing. And if I had, I would have told them to take it out in the streets. You might not think much of me, Kaille, but you should know I don’t tolerate that sort of thing in here! Not from anyone, not even Miss Pryce!”

  Ethan didn’t ask how he would manage to tell Sephira to take her business outside without getting himself beaten to a bloody mess. Dunc sounded as serious as Ethan had ever heard him; he wondered if the Scot’s outrage was real.

  “Calm down, Dunc,” he said. “I apologize. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about it.”

  Dunc replaced his pipe with a click of his teeth on clay. “There have been robberies?” he asked, speaking around the pipe stem.

  Ethan nodded. “Nearly two dozen. At King’s Chapel, Copp’s Hill, and the Granary.”

  “What did they take?”

  He shrugged. “Heads, hands. Just the sort of things a young man fancying himself a surgeon might need to educate himself.” He didn’t say anything about the feet or the mutilation of the cadavers’ chests. Even if Dunc truly had been offended by the suggestion that he would traffic in body parts, he was bound to mention the robberies to someone. Despite all his protestations to the contrary, Dunc was not Boston’s most discreet proprietor. That was fine with Ethan: let word get around that graves had been robbed, and let those who were responsible believe that Ethan thought the desecrations nothing more or less than the work of resurrectionists interested in making a few pounds.

  “Well,” Dunc said, “if anyone shows up here trying to sell anything gruesome, I’ll order them out. And I’ll get word to you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. If you don’t inform me, I’ll hear of it sooner or later. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I was serious before, Kaille. I tolerate a lot in here; maybe more than I should. But my da’s grave was stripped back in Dundee. I’ve never forgotten it.”

  Ethan met the man’s gaze. “In that case, you have my apologies a second time.” He took another sip of his ale, but couldn’t stomach more. It was time he returned to the Dowser and had a proper drink and some food. He patted Dunc on the back and left the Crow’s Nest.

  He walked to the Dowsing Rod the way he always had when coming from the North End, forgetting until it was too late that since the
beginning of the occupation, his usual route took him just past Murray’s Barracks, where the Twenty-ninth Regiment was billeted. By the time he realized what he had done, he was nearing the corner of Brattle and Hillier’s streets. British soldiers, resplendent in red and white, were everywhere. Most ignored him as he strode past, but a few eyed him, their faces like stone.

  He had served in His Majesty’s navy, and though he soon chose to leave the service and pursue his fortune, he long clung to the belief that the Crown and Parliament were the best arbiters of how the American colonies ought to be governed. He had been a Tory for many years. No longer; the occupation had changed his mind. He could not abide the presence of soldiers in his city, and though he was not yet ready to join Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty in agitating against the King’s laws, he no longer found fault with their ambitions. Indeed, he could imagine a day when he might join their cause, and that, in itself, marked a startling change from just a year ago at this time.

  More, since the day the troops first landed at Long Wharf and paraded into Boston, he had been convinced that eventually the occupation would lead to bloodshed. Over the past year, several altercations between soldiers and citizens had resulted in injuries, some of them serious. As of yet, though, no one had died. Ethan wondered how much longer their good fortune could hold.

  As if magicked into being by the thought, a group of young men—their clothing torn and stained, their voices loud and boisterous—turned the corner onto Hillier’s from Dock Square. These were just the sort of reckless pups who for months had been harassing uniformed regulars with taunts and insults.

  “There are the bloody lobsters now,” said one of the huffs, pitching his voice so that everyone on the street could hear.

  Ethan slowed, then halted, eyeing the gang of young men. He was caught in between. Ahead of him, several soldiers had gathered in a tight cluster, their rifles held ready at waist level, their bayonets gleaming in the sun.

  “What are ya goin’ to do, ya thievin’ dogs?” the huff called. “Ya goin’ to shoot us?”

  Ethan saw no officers on the street. A pair of soldiers ran off toward the barracks; he hoped they would return with someone who could take command of the situation without making matters worse. And he hoped they would do so with haste.

  “You Yankees had best move on,” a soldier called back. He sounded young, and his voice quavered slightly. “You don’t want to get hurt.”

  “Now we’re Yankees,” the mouthy youth said, drawing laughter from his mates.

  The soldier and his comrades began to sing “Yankee Doodle,” a song with which the British had mocked colonial militia during the war with the French, and with which they had goaded colonists in the years since. They sang off-key, and in weak voices, as if their hearts were not really in it.

  But their singing wiped the smiles off the faces of the young men. One of the pups picked up a stone off the street and threw it at the soldiers. The rest followed his example. Most of the stones missed their targets by good distances, but one whizzed past the head of a regular, and another hit a man in the shoulder.

  The soldiers ceased their singing. Passersby had stopped to watch the confrontation, and now an eerie silence settled over the street. Several of the regulars raised their weapons to their shoulders.

  “Throw another,” one of them growled. “I dare ya.”

  Ethan saw no sign of the two men who had run off toward the barracks. And so he did the one thing he knew he could.

  “Imago ex aqua evocata,” he whispered under his breath. Illusion, conjured from water.

  They were near enough to the Town Dock that he thought he could cast a spell sourced in water. And as Uncle Reg appeared next to him once more, insubstantial in the afternoon sunlight, he felt the spell thrum in the street.

  But the image he had hoped to summon—that of a British officer—did not appear.

  “I must be too far from the harbor,” he muttered, glancing at Reg.

  The ghost merely stared back at him.

  The soldiers began to advance on the pups, brandishing their weapons, their expressions grim. For their part, the youths picked up more stones. Ethan started to chant the spell again, intending this time to use the air around them as his source.

  But at that moment, at last, the two soldiers sprinted back into view, with an older man—an officer by the look of him—following close behind.

  “You men, fall back!” the officer shouted.

  The soldiers halted, looking toward their commander.

  The pups, however, showed no sign of backing down. Ethan hurried toward them.

  “That’s enough,” he said, approaching their leader. “Leave here, before you get yourselves or someone else shot.”

  “And if we don’t?” the mouth demanded.

  Ethan bared his teeth in a grin. “Then I’ll break your nose.”

  The pup blinked, and took a step back. He recovered quickly, though. “You’re a damned lobster lover.”

  “And you have the brains of an oyster. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Ethan looked at the others one at a time. “Are you? And you?”

  None of them answered.

  “Go home. We have enough to worry about in this town without oafs like you starting fights they can’t finish.”

  Ethan didn’t wait for their reply, but turned away and headed up the street past the soldiers. His hands were shaking.

  He could hardly fathom the idiocy of those lads. Eventually one of this lot, or some other fool just like them, was going to push the soldiers too far, with tragic results.

  He walked on, his heart pounding. He was wary now, eager to get off the street. But as he put more distance between himself and the barracks, it occurred to him to wonder why his illusion spell had failed. Yes, he had been far from the water, but he had felt the spell, and Uncle Reg had appeared. The conjuring should have worked.

  He considered attempting another illusion spell, but by then he had reached the Dowsing Rod, and this stretch of Sudbury Street was crowded with people heading to their homes. Vowing to try a spell later, he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  The tavern’s great room was relatively empty, and Kannice was nowhere to be seen. Kelf, though, shouted a greeting and waved him to the bar.

  “Good day, Kelf.”

  “Kannice is at the market,” the barkeep said, running the words together. “She’ll be back soon enough. But in the meantime, you’ve been in demand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a couple in here earlier, lookin’ for ya. I think they want to hire ya.”

  Usually, Ethan limited himself to one client at a time, but since he had refused payment from the King’s Chapel congregation, he felt justified in taking on a second job.

  “Did they say more than that?” Ethan asked.

  “Aye, but they was talkin’ to Kannice, so you’ll have to wait for her. In the meantime, what can I get ya?”

  Ethan ordered an ale—a real ale this time—and a plate of oysters. Kelf filled a tankard for him before retreating into the kitchen and emerging again a few minutes later carrying a plate that was piled high with oysters.

  Ethan sipped his ale, allowing the Kent pale to wash away the lingering taste of Dunc’s swill. Then he set to work on the oysters. As he shucked and ate, he considered what he might do next to find those who had desecrated the graves. It was possible that Dunc would send word, that the stolen goods would wind up at the Crow’s Nest and Dunc’s antipathy toward grave robbing would lead him to keep his promise. But Ethan thought it unlikely.

  It wasn’t Dunc he doubted—much to his own surprise—but rather the robbers themselves. Even without finding any trace of conjuring power in the burying grounds, he remained convinced that the robberies were tied in some way to spellers. Several of the graves had contained items that might have been worth something: hair combs, a cane with a brass tip and ivory handle; Abigail Rowan had been buried wearing a small brooch. W
hy would ordinary thieves work so hard to dig up graves but then leave behind these sellable items? And who, other than a conjurer intent on dark spellmaking, would mark every corpse?

  But while he thought it possible that a spellmaker had robbed the graves, he couldn’t imagine who this person might be. He knew Janna wasn’t involved, and he doubted that Gavin Black, who lived near Murray’s Barracks, would be party to such horrors either. Gaspar Mariz, on the other hand, might very well have committed such a ghastly crime on Sephira’s behalf. Before long, Ethan would need to speak with him, although first he would have to figure out how to arrange a conversation without also involving Nigel, Nap, and Gordon.

  “There you are!”

  He turned. Kannice was crossing to the bar bearing two canvas sacks filled with fowl, vegetables, and fish. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could see corded muscle beneath the skin of her slender arms. She kissed him lightly on the lips and heaved the bags onto the bar.

  “Kelf!” she called.

  The barman emerged from the back.

  “There’s flour and cream waiting at the market. It’s paid for, but I couldn’t carry it.”

  “Course you couldn’t,” Kelf said. He glanced at Ethan and shook his head. “Wisp of a thing like her—I don’t know how she carries anythin’.” He lumbered to the door. “I’ll be back.”

  Kannice carried one of the sacks into the kitchen.

  “Do you need help?” Ethan asked.

  “Don’t you start, too!” she called.

  “All right.” He waited until she came back for the second sack. “Kelf mentioned that someone came in looking for me.”

  “That’s right. A young couple, Darcy and Ruth Walters. Darcy said you knew his mother.”

  Ethan felt an involuntary shudder run through his body. “Aye,” he whispered.

  Kannice’s brow creased. “Are you all right?”

  “What else did he say?” Ethan asked.

  “Just that they needed your help.”

  “I’m sure they do.” He drained his ale and headed for the door.

  “Who are they? Who was his mother?”

  “A conjurer,” Ethan said over his shoulder. “She died a fortnight ago.”