A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “I’m staying busy,” Ethan said, not wishing to say more. Henry didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer, and when he didn’t see Ethan around the shop for too long, he worried as a father would for his own son. Hearing of the grave desecrations and the ghosts haunting Boston’s families might have scared the man.

  “Well, good. Be careful.”

  “I will. Thank you, Henry.”

  He left the shop, and turned north on Cooper’s Alley toward Water Street, the ring of Henry’s hammer fading as he walked away.

  The Green Dragon stood near the corner of Union and Hanover streets in what Ethan imagined must have been for Samuel Adams and his allies uncomfortable proximity to the barracks of the Twenty-ninth Regiment. It was a nondescript building, notable only for the cast-iron dragon perched over its main entrance. The tavern itself was located in the basement, down a steep, dimly lit flight of stairs.

  So early in the day, most publick houses in Boston would have been nigh to empty. Not the Dragon. The great room was filled with artisans and men of means, many of them gathered at the bar, others crowded around tables. Overlapping conversations blended into an incomprehensible din; Ethan wasn’t sure that he could have made himself heard even to ask one of the men where he might find Samuel Adams.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to. As he stood in the doorway, surveying the crowd, a man near the bar detached himself from a cluster of patrons and approached him. Adams had changed little since their encounter the previous year. His face might have been a bit more careworn; the palsy that had afflicted him all his life might have been somewhat more noticeable. His hair had long since turned gray, though he was but a few years older than Ethan, but his brow remained smooth, his dark blue eyes as clear and keen as Ethan remembered.

  “Mister Kaille,” he said, proffering a hand and smiling broadly.

  Ethan gripped his hand. “Mister Adams, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you. Can I buy you an ale?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Very well. If you’ll follow me, we can join the others and speak without fear of interruption.”

  Ethan didn’t know what others he referred to, but he followed Adams through the throng to a small chamber off the rear of the great room. There they found four other men, including Dr. Warren, whom Ethan had encountered just the night before. Adams shut the door against the clamor, before taking his place at the table where the others were already seated.

  The four men had fallen silent upon Ethan and Adams’s arrival, and were watching Ethan, who lingered near the door, though there was an empty chair at the table. Eyeing the men, he realized that he recognized all of them; Adams had invited him to an august gathering.

  In addition to Warren, Adams’s companions included James Otis, a masterly orator and a man who was nearly as famous for his unpredictable mood changes as for his activities on behalf of the Sons of Liberty; Dr. Benjamin Church, who several years before attended to Ethan’s injuries after a particularly harrowing encounter with Sephira and her men; and Paul Revere, the silversmith, whom Ethan had never met, but knew by reputation.

  “Please sit with us, Mister Kaille,” Adams said, indicating the vacant chair with an open hand.

  Ethan crossed to the table and took his seat, conscious of the gazes upon him.

  “You remember James Otis,” Adams said. “May I also introduce—”

  “Doctors Church and Warren I’ve met,” Ethan said. “I’m pleased to see both of you again. And this would be Mister Revere,” he went on, facing the silversmith. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Revere replied with a solemn nod.

  Adams appeared pleased. Otis, on the other hand, eyed Ethan with unconcealed suspicion, his protuberant dark eyes and untamed hair making him look somewhat mad. He and Ethan had clashed when last they met; clearly he remembered.

  “Well,” Adams began again, “if introductions are unnecessary, I’ll move on to the business at hand. We wish to thank you, Mister Kaille, and to welcome you at long last to the cause of liberty. We’re hopeful that this marks the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership.”

  Ethan stared at him, his forehead furrowing. “Forgive me, Mister Adams, but I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.”

  “Come now, Mister Kaille. There is no need for modesty. We’re all friends here. James and I have long been aware of your … extraordinary talents, and we have taken the liberty of explaining to our colleagues what it is you’ve done.”

  “For my part, I’ve known for some time of your magicking abilities,” Church said. “If you recall, you came to me having already mended several of your injuries.”

  Ethan said nothing to the doctor, but instead fixed Adams with a hard glare. “You told them I’m a conjurer?” he said. “You had no right.”

  “Your secret is safe, Mister Kaille. You have my word.”

  “My secret was not yours to share, sir.”

  “But surely if we’re going to be allies—”

  “We’re not. I have no idea what this is about, but I assure you I have done nothing on behalf of your cause that would warrant a discussion of my ‘talents,’ as you put it.”

  “Do you mean to say that you were not responsible for—”

  Revere laid a hand on Adams’s arm, silencing him. “You truly have no idea what this is about?” the silversmith asked, his voice a mild baritone.

  “None at all.”

  He shared a glance with Adams, and then with Warren.

  After a lengthy silence, Adams said, “I fear we may have wasted your time, Mister Kaille.” His face had paled; he appeared shaken.

  “What’s happened?” Ethan asked. “What is it you thought I had done?”

  Warren caught Adams’s eye and gave a small shake of his head.

  “I believe discretion dictates that we not answer,” Adams said.

  Ethan smiled thinly. “Of course it does.” He stood. “Gentlemen.”

  He started toward the door.

  “You haven’t used your magicking to do anything that might draw our interest?” Adams called after him.

  “Not that can think of. Not that I did intentionally.”

  He stepped back into the warmth and the noise of the tavern’s great room, wended his way through the crowd, and ascended the stairs back to the street. He was breathing hard, and he had his fists balled. How dare Adams speak to others of his conjuring abilities! He had presumed too much, and might well have put Ethan’s life in danger. Janna and Gavin were more open about their conjuring abilities, but Ethan could not be. Not in his line of work, not when he made new enemies every day.

  But even as he seethed, Ethan wondered again what it was the Sons of Liberty thought he had done. Was the conjurer who had desecrated the graves acting on behalf of those who sought to resist the Crown and Parliament? Was he trying to make it seem that Ethan was party to whatever actions had drawn the notice of Boston’s Whigs? Or was it mere coincidence that he heard from Adams now, as his inquiry into the grave robberies deepened?

  Whatever the answer, he needed to find this new conjurer before men less forgiving of his spellmaking tried to blame him for conjurings he had not cast.

  He struck out toward the North End, intending to visit the first of the families whose names Pell had given him the night before. As he walked, though, he felt a conjuring and knew it right away for a finding spell. It seemed that Sephira remained eager to speak with him.

  The spell reached him in mere moments, twining about his legs like a vine. It had come from a distance—probably from Sephira’s home on Summer Street—so Ethan knew that he had some time before Mariz, Nigel, and the rest would reach him.

  Still he needed to ward himself and he was on a crowded lane, surrounded by people.

  He took out his pouch of mullein and removed three leaves. Already he had used a good portion of the leaves Janna had sold him. At this rate he would have to buy more in a matter of days.
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  Holding the leaves in the curl of his fingers as he continued to walk, he whispered to himself, “Tegimen ex verbasco evocatum.” Warding, conjured from mullein.

  He felt his own power hum in the street, an answer to Mariz’s finding, and saw Reg gliding beside him. Something in the ghost’s expression made him falter in midstride.

  Did the spell work? he asked.

  Reg shrugged, his cheeks looking more drawn than usual.

  “You don’t know?”

  A woman passing in the other direction stared at him. Only then did it occur to Ethan that he had spoken aloud. You don’t know? he asked again. You can’t tell if the conjurings are doing what they’re supposed to?

  The old warrior shook his head.

  Ethan considered ducking into an alley to cut himself and try a concealment spell, but at this hour the street was crowded enough to make him reluctant to do so. While he was still pondering what to do next, he heard someone call his name.

  Looking up, he spotted an older man walking in his direction, a hitch in his step.

  Gavin Black lived not far from here in a small house on Hillier’s Lane, which was not to be confused with Hillier’s Street, where Murray’s men were billeted. After Janna, Ethan, and now Mariz, Black might well have been the most accomplished conjurer living in Boston. He had once captained a merchant ship, and had often used his spells to navigate through the worst of the weather he encountered. He knew conjurings to raise and diminish winds, to calm rough waters, and to heal a breached hull—things Ethan had never learned to do, even during his years as a sailor. But from conversations they’d had since the old captain ceased his voyaging and settled in the city, Ethan gathered that Gavin cast spells infrequently now.

  He had white hair and a ruddy, open face that usually bore a grin. His eyes were pale blue, and, as usual, he was dressed plainly in tan breeches, a white linen shirt, and a worn, faded blue coat that might well have accompanied him on every voyage he sailed.

  Ethan smiled at the sight of the old man, but Black appeared deadly serious as he halted in front of him.

  “You’ve been conjuring,” Black said, keeping his voice low. “Just now, I mean.”

  “Aye,” Ethan said. “A warding. Sephira’s men are looking for me, and one of them used a finding spell. It’s only a matter of time before they get here.”

  Black pressed his lips together and gave a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t meet Ethan’s gaze.

  “I cast fairly often, Gavin. You know this. Why would it trouble you today?”

  “Your spells didn’t bother me at all,” the old man said. “It’s just—” He broke off, shaking his head again and muttering something under his breath. “It matters not. I’m sorry to have kept you.” He turned to leave.

  Ethan put a hand on his arm. “Gavin, wait. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Black looked around them and exhaled heavily. “Do your spells still work, Ethan?”

  Ethan felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “The finding spell cast by Sephira’s man worked. I know it did. I have to hope that my warding did as well. Yours…?”

  “They don’t do a thing. None of them. I don’t know if I’m getting too old, or if I’m doing them wrong, but they don’t work at all.”

  “I thought you didn’t cast anymore.”

  “I do on occasion. To light a cooking fire, or heal a wound. Sometimes I just do it to see if I still can.” A wistful smile touched the old man’s lips. “I miss it sometimes.” He held up his hand. He had cut his thumb just below the knuckle. “I tried to heal this last night, but I couldn’t. When that spell didn’t work, I tried to do other things. And—” His voice had started to rise and he paused now and licked his lips. He leaned in closer to Ethan, and when next he spoke it was in a whisper once more. “And I can’t conjure anymore.”

  “It’s not just you. Nor is it because you’re getting too old. I cast a spell last night that didn’t work, at least not the first time. And … another conjurer I know mentioned that the same had happened to him.”

  Gavin closed his eyes and let out another breath. “Thank you, Ethan. That comes as a great relief.” Despite the words, concern still furrowed his brow. “Do you know what’s causing this?”

  Ethan shook his head. “I don’t, but I’m trying to find out. Perhaps you can help me in that regard.” He steered the old man to the edge of the lane and described for him as quickly as he could what he had seen at the burying grounds the day before. “Does any of that mean something to you? Do you know why grave robbers would take hands and skulls?”

  “Other than to sell them, you mean?”

  “Aye,” Ethan said.

  “There are conjurers in the islands of the Caribbean, who claim that they can bring back the dead using parts of the body.”

  It seemed to Ethan that a cloud passed in front of the sun, though the light didn’t change and a warm wind still blew in off the harbor.

  “Did they need anything else to do this, other than the body parts?”

  “Aye,” Black said. “Now, keep in mind, this was just what they told me. I never saw them do it, nor did I wish to. But they claimed that they also needed something of this world: a possession, something that could be used to bring them back.”

  Of course. “A piece of clothing perhaps?” Ethan asked, his voice flat.

  “Aye, that would work.”

  “Kaille,” he heard from behind him. Nigel’s voice.

  He cast a quick glance at Sephira’s men. Mariz stood next to Yellow-hair, looking like no more than a child beside the man. He had his knife in hand. Nigel held no weapon, but Ethan was certain that he had a pistol at the ready. Nap and Gordon had positioned themselves behind the other two.

  Ethan nodded to them. “I’ll come with you,” he said to Nigel. “Just allow me another minute to speak with my friend.”

  “And why should I do that?” Nigel asked, with a smug smile.

  “Because he’s a conjurer, too,” Ethan said, not bothering to raise his voice. “And because even with Mariz standing there beside you, the two of us can snap your neck if we choose to.”

  Nigel’s face fell. Ethan turned back to Gavin before the tough could say more.

  “Was there more to the conjurings? Specific words that had to be included in the incantation, or maybe some sort of symbol?”

  Black shook his head, his gaze flicking past Ethan toward Nigel. “Honestly, Ethan, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “You needn’t apologize, Gavin. I’m grateful to you. And I’ll do what I can to help with your problem.”

  The old man appeared more frightened by the moment. Ethan assumed that Nigel had produced his firearm.

  “Do you need me to … do you need help?” he asked.

  Ethan grinned. “I’ll be fine.” He turned to face Sephira’s toughs. Nigel did indeed have his pistol in hand. “I’m ready when you are, gentlemen. We shouldn’t keep herself waiting any longer.”

  Chapter

  NINE

  They marched him through the streets of the South End as they would a prisoner, Gordon and Nap in front of him, Nigel and Mariz behind. Most people ignored them as they went past, although a few—perhaps those who recognized Sephira’s men—halted and stared. None of the toughs spoke a word, not even when Ethan chanced a quick look back at Nigel and said, “It’s not like her to hold a grudge for this long, especially over something as insignificant as dueling pistols.”

  Yellow-hair stared past him, his expression unreadable.

  “I was paid all of three pounds. Has business gotten so bad for her?”

  Still nothing.

  Ethan held his tongue as they covered the rest of the distance to Sephira’s mansion on Summer Street.

  The Pryce house was an impressive structure built of white marble and fronted by an expansive lawn and carefully tended gardens. He had long considered it a far nicer home than she deserved; then again, if he had lived here and she in the shabby room he rented, he st
ill would have thought her quarters too good for her.

  Mariz and Nigel led him up a low set of steps onto the front veranda. There they stopped, just in front of a broad oak door.

  “Your knife,” Mariz said, holding out a slender hand.

  Ethan had expected this; it was a precaution Sephira always took with him, despite knowing that he could still draw blood by biting the inside of his cheek, or scratching his arm, as he once had done in her house. Even if it didn’t make her any safer, she seemed to like lording over him whatever advantages she could gain. He removed the blade from its sheath and handed it to Mariz.

  “And your mullein.”

  Ethan frowned, but handed over his pouch containing the herb.

  Mariz faced Nigel and nodded once. Yellow-hair led them through the door.

  Within, the house was decorated with tapestries and other works of art; Ethan had been here several times before and so knew what to expect. But he still found it jarring to be reminded that Sephira, whom he thought of as little more than a glorified brigand, possessed such refined taste.

  They crossed through the small front foyer, and through a vast common room, to a dining room that was nearly as spacious as the parlor. Sephira sat at the far end of a long table, a goblet of Madeira and a plate of cheeses and fruits set before her. She was reading a newspaper when they walked in; she looked up from it, her sharp gaze finding Ethan straightaway before shifting to Nigel.

  The subtle lift of her eyebrow was all the warning Ethan had.

  Nigel swung around, leading with his fist, which caught Ethan high on his cheek, just below the eye. He staggered back—into Gordon’s grasp, as it turned out. The big man pinned Ethan’s arms to his side, rendering him defenseless. Ethan lashed out with a kick, which Nigel deftly avoided. Yellow-hair dug a fist into Ethan’s side, making him gasp. He hit Ethan again, full in the jaw. After that, Ethan was too addled to keep track of every blow Nigel and the others landed.

  It seemed that they hit him several times more before Sephira finally said, “Enough.”