A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  They broke off their assault, and Gordon released him. Ethan collapsed to the floor, coughing, gasping for breath. Blood ran from his nose and his split lip, choking him. He spat a mouthful onto the floor, hoping he managed to stain Sephira’s rug.

  He heard the click of a boot on wood, but only realized when she started speaking that Sephira had gotten up from the table and was standing over him.

  “You’ve gone too far this time, Ethan. I’m tempted to kill you where you lie and have them dump your body on the Common, or in the mudflats. You should know better, but of course, I’m continually amazed by your foolishness.”

  He could barely reply. “All this trouble … for a pair of … of dueling pistols?”

  For several seconds, she said nothing. Then, “You just don’t learn, do you?”

  He felt himself lifted again, knew the beating was about to resume.

  “Sephira, wait!”

  “Are you going to stop this nonsense?” she asked, her tone mild.

  “I truly don’t know what this is about. I thought it was the pistols. I was wrong. But I’m at a loss as to what else it could be.”

  She stared at him, shaking her head. “You brought this on yourself,” she said. To Nigel, she said, “Kill him.”

  Ignis ex cruore evocatus! he said within his mind. Fire, conjured from blood!

  The blood vanished from his face, and Nigel’s coat burst into flames.

  Gordon and the others rushed to smother the fire. Ethan stood his ground, making no attempt to flee. Mariz remained beside him.

  The toughs extinguished the flames in mere seconds. Nigel scrambled to his feet, his clothes still smoking, and pressed the barrel of his pistol against Ethan’s chest so forcefully that Ethan stumbled back a step.

  “You bloody bastard!”

  Ethan ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on Sephira. “I don’t know what this is about,” he said. “If you’re really going to let him kill me, the least you can do is first tell me why.”

  “You insist on playing these games with me.”

  “This is not a game, Sephira; this is my life. And I swear to you on the life of Kannice Lester, I don’t know what this is about.”

  “It’s about me killin’ you!” Nigel said with a snarl. “Finally, after all these years!”

  But he didn’t pull the trigger. Rather, he looked back at Sephira, awaiting her orders. And it seemed that Ethan’s oath reached her.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  Nigel sulked like an overgrown boy denied his favorite toy. He lowered the pistol. A second later, seemingly as an afterthought, he smacked Ethan’s head with an open hand. Ethan reeled; he would have fallen had Mariz not held him up.

  “That’s for ruinin’ my coat,” Yellow-hair growled.

  “You don’t know why I brought you here?” Sephira asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you. I thought you were still angry with me for giving you Salter’s old shoes instead of the dueling pistols.”

  “I am still angry with you for that,” she said. “But you’re here for a far more serious transgression.”

  “And I’m telling you that I can’t think of anything else I might have done.”

  Even as he said the words, he heard in his mind the echo of his conversation with Adams and the others. Were the two encounters related?

  “You mean to tell me that you haven’t been to the warehouses of Alexander Rowan or Sebastian Wise?”

  “Rowan?” Ethan said. “You’re working for Alexander Rowan?”

  “So, you do know him?”

  “Yes. I was at his house last night.”

  Sephira’s smile could have frozen the harbor solid. “I know you were. Why do you think you’re here now?”

  “I didn’t know that you were working for him.”

  “So if you had, you wouldn’t have taken his money?” she asked, her voice spiraling upward. “You wouldn’t have interfered in my business? You wouldn’t have made him think that I had—?” She clamped her mouth shut, and looked at Nigel. Ethan expected to hear her repeat the order to kill him.

  “He didn’t give me any money—not a penny—and I’m not working for him,” Ethan said, keeping his voice level. “I’m working for the congregation of King’s Chapel, of which he is a member. I’m inquiring into a series of grave desecrations and robberies that include the burial site of his wife.”

  “Grave robberies,” she said, sounding doubtful.

  “That’s right. Resurrectionists, most likely, since they took the head and right hand of each corpse.”

  She returned to her seat at the table and took a long drink of wine. When she spoke again, she sounded more composed.

  “And what about his warehouse? When did you go there?”

  “I haven’t been. Not once.”

  “You see, Ethan, that’s where you disappoint me. You take so much care in crafting a wild story about resurrectionists, and then you tell a lie that no one could possibly believe.”

  “You’ve known me for a long time, Sephira. And while you might think me a fool, you must know that I’m not so stupid as to lie to you in your house, surrounded by your men, with a pistol aimed at my head. So maybe you should tell me what’s happened. If this involves Mister Rowan, it’s possible that we can help each other.” He chanced a grin, though it hurt his jaw and lip. “You can always kill me later.”

  She looked away, chuckling. “Sit,” she said, gesturing at the chair to her right. “Get him a glass of wine,” she said to Mariz.

  Ethan sat, and Mariz placed a goblet of Madeira in front of him. He took a long drink, managing to dribble just a bit of it over his swollen lip. Sephira frowned at him.

  “Can’t you heal that?” she asked.

  “I will later. Tell me what this is about.”

  “I’ve been hired by Rowan, Wise, and a few of their friends, to protect their warehouses. I have men there now.”

  “Their warehouses,” Ethan said, more to himself than to her. “Why would…?” It dawned on him. “They’re not honoring the non-importation agreements, are they?”

  “No,” she said. “They’re not. And they have been threatened repeatedly. Last night, not long before you arrived at the Rowan house, the warehouses of Rowan and Wise were attacked. Most of their goods were destroyed.”

  Ethan had heard of similar actions being taken against other merchants who had Tory leanings. Many merchants in Boston, and throughout the rest of the American colonies, had expressed their dissatisfaction with Parliament’s policies by refusing to import goods from England. Many, but not all. And those who violated the non-importation agreements not only weakened the boycott of English goods, but also profited at the expense of those who honored it. They were among the most reviled men in the city. Even someone like Rowan, who was wealthy and otherwise well-respected, could not escape the wrath of Whig sympathizers.

  “I can understand why you’re angry,” Ethan said. “I’m sure Rowan won’t be pleased when he finds out. But why would you think that I had a hand in the destruction of his goods? What possible reason—?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “To discredit me. To make me look incompetent, so that he’ll turn to you for protection.”

  “Sephira, I—”

  “The goods were destroyed with magick!” she said, spitting the words at him. “You can deny it all you like, but Mariz here is certain that it was witchery that did all the damage.”

  Of course. This was the reason the Sons of Liberty had summoned him. Sephira and Adams both thought that he was responsible for the damage done to the merchants’ warehouses. The difference was, Adams and his allies wished to congratulate him and enlist him in their cause; Sephira wanted to murder him.

  Ethan turned to the other conjurer.

  “What the senhora is telling you is true,” Mariz said. “The damage was done with conjurings.”

  “Did you use a revela potestatem spell?” Ethan asked.

  Mariz shook h
is head. “No. The senhora thought there was no need. She has believed all along that you are responsible.”

  “What are the two of you babbling about? What is that … that magicking you asked about?”

  “A revela potestatem spell,” Ethan said.

  “Yes, that. What does it do?”

  “It’s a conjuring that allows us to see the residue of power from a spell that’s already been cast. Every conjurer’s power looks different—each has a unique color. This spell reveals that color.” He paused. “You’ve actually seen me cast such a spell. Last year, after Mariz was attacked, I used it to determine who had hurt him.”

  Sephira nodded, looking far less certain of herself than she usually did. “I remember.”

  “We can cast the same spell on Rowan’s damaged property. That would at least prove to you that I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Do you know this spell?” Sephira asked Mariz. She gestured at Ethan. “I don’t trust him to do it.”

  “I know the spell, Senhora.”

  Still, she appeared uncertain. Ethan couldn’t imagine that she liked having to rely on conjurings for anything, and he was sure she didn’t wish to entertain the possibility that she had been wrong about him. But she was a thieftaker before all else.

  “All right,” she said. She looked at Nap and Gordon. “You two, get my carriage ready. Nigel, Mariz, bring Ethan out front.” She glanced at Nigel. “Gently. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Yellow-hair and the conjurer escorted Ethan out to the veranda. A few minutes later, a large bay pulled Sephira’s black carriage around to the front of the house. Nap sat on the box in front, steering. At the same time, Sephira emerged from the house. She had put on her indigo waistcoat, and she carried a pistol.

  “Nap will drive,” she said, starting down the path toward the carriage. “Nigel, Mariz, and Ethan will ride with me.”

  Gainsaying her would have been unthinkable. Ethan climbed into the carriage; Mariz and Nigel sat across from him, Nigel holding his pistol loosely in his hand. The acrid smell of his burned coat filled the carriage. Sephira climbed in, glanced at her men, and sat beside Ethan. Nigel reached a hand out over the door and tapped once on the roof. Ethan heard the snap of the reins, and the carriage lurched forward, beginning the slow, jarring journey to the waterfront.

  For a long time, no one spoke. Sephira gazed at the street. Ethan kept his eyes downcast, although he was conscious of Nigel watching him, his trigger finger no doubt itching.

  It was Nigel who broke the silence.

  “I thought you used your witchery to protect us,” he said to Mariz.

  “I thought I had as well.”

  “Then how did he light my coat on fire?”

  Mariz’s gaze flicked toward Ethan. “Sometimes spells do not work as we wish them to. I am sorry.”

  Nigel glowered.

  “That old man you were speaking to when we found you,” Mariz said to Ethan. The man’s spectacles reflected the light from the carriage openings so that they appeared opaque. “Is he truly a conjurer?”

  “Aye. His name is Gavin Black. He doesn’t cast much anymore, but he was a sea captain once, and an accomplished spellmaker.”

  “How many of us are there in this city?”

  “Too many,” Nigel muttered.

  “I don’t know,” Ethan said. “Twenty? Thirty?”

  Nigel stared out at the street. “Like I said, too many.”

  “How many of them are strong enough to attack Rowan’s warehouse and destroy his goods?” Sephira asked.

  Ethan shook his head. “I can’t know until I see the damage. But even if there are fifty conjurers in the city, no more than a dozen or so are accomplished spellers.” He thought of his sister Bett, who could have conjured if she wanted to, but had forsworn spells years ago, believing her powers to be evil. “Even fewer can cast as Mariz and I do.”

  “Is that true?” she asked Mariz.

  “I would think so.”

  They lapsed back into silence. The scent of brine in the air had grown stronger, and the strident cries of gulls echoed all around them. They were nearing the harbor.

  The carriage slowed to a stop, and there came a tap on the roof.

  Nigel opened the carriage door, climbed out and held it as Sephira followed him. Mariz gestured for Ethan to go next. Once outside, Sephira led them out onto Long Wharf, which was crowded with wharfmen, sailors, and laborers. They walked past hulking warehouses and moored ships, until at last they came to a building with a sign mounted over the door that read “Christian Rowan & Sons.”

  The door was open, and laborers worked within, sorting through goods that had been shattered and burned. Ethan spotted the younger Mr. Rowan, standing off the to the side, grim-faced, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the damage. He wore a dark silk suit and looked as out of place in the warehouse as Ethan would have at one of the elder Rowan’s notorious fetes. Ethan glanced at Sephira and pointed toward the man. She nodded and strode in the young merchant’s direction, tossing “Wait here” over her shoulder.

  The rest of them watched as Sephira greeted Mr. Rowan with a disarming smile and spoke to him for several minutes, occasionally gesturing at one part of the warehouse or another. Soon, she was walking back toward the front door, while the merchant gathered his workers and spoke to them.

  “They’ll be vacating the premises shortly,” she said, as she rejoined them by the door.

  “What did you tell him?” Ethan asked.

  “Just that I needed to examine the damage for a short while before his men finished clearing it away.”

  The laborers began to file out a second door at the back of the warehouse. Rowan, however, crossed to where Sephira, Ethan, and the others were waiting. As he neared them, he recognized Ethan, his eyes widening at the sight of him.

  “Mister Kaille,” he said. “What ever happened to your face?”

  Ethan reached a hand up to his split lip. “An encounter with a gang of ruffians,” he said, keeping his tone light. “It’s a common hazard in my line of work. There’s no avoiding the rabble.”

  He heard Nigel rumble beside him.

  “Well, you should really have a physician take at look at you.”

  “Thank you for your concern, sir.”

  “I must say that I’m perplexed by all this mischief and violence directed at our warehouse. My father and I make a point of trading only in North American goods, but somehow these agitators and the riffraff who follow them have got it in their heads that we are selling proscribed items, which I assure you is not the case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rowan glanced at Sephira. “I didn’t know that you were helping Miss Pryce with her inquiry.”

  “He’s not,” she said before Ethan could respond. “Ethan is still somewhat new to the thieftaking trade, and he’s … observing so that he might learn something of the craft for future inquiries.”

  Ethan wasn’t sure whether to be angry or to laugh at her audacity. In the end, he just mumbled something about being happy to help in any way he could, and left it at that.

  Sephira assured Mr. Rowan that he and his laborers would be able to resume their work in short order, and tried to send him on his way.

  “I’m still not entirely certain why it is you need us out of here,” the merchant said.

  Sephira cast a look Ethan’s way, but he refused to meet her gaze. She had essentially declared him her apprentice; it wasn’t his place to answer a question directed at her.

  “You can be,” she said at last, her smile as dazzling as ever. “But I assure you that we will finish far sooner if we’re allowed to work without interruption or distraction. I assume that you wish to put this unfortunate incident behind you as soon as possible.”

  “Well, yes, naturally.”

  “I thought so. That being the case, I would urge you to let us conduct our business and be done with it.”

  “Of course,” he said, sounding rueful. “Even n
ow, I delay you. Forgive me, Miss Pryce.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Mister Rowan.”

  He walked away. Ethan and the others followed Sephira into the warehouse. Nap closed and locked the door and planted himself there. The rest of them approached the piles of rubble. The Rowans, it seemed, specialized in imports of furniture. Ethan saw tables, chairs, bureaus, and desks that had been splintered or burned or both.

  “That was well done with Rowan,” he said to Sephira. “Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from you.”

  She smirked before turning her attention back to the damaged items. She surveyed the destruction, hands on her hips, a look of disgust on her features. “If it turns out that you did this, I really will have them kill you.”

  Ethan said nothing.

  “All right,” she said, facing Ethan first and then Mariz. “How do we do this?”

  “We’ll need Nigel,” Ethan said.

  “Me?” Yellow-hair said. “I’m no conjurer.”

  But Mariz was already nodding. “Yes, he is right.”

  “What can Nigel do?” Sephira asked.

  Ethan grinned. “He can’t do a thing. But I lit his coat on fire with a spell, which means that there is a residue of my power on him. A conjuring will reveal the color of it, which you can compare to the color of the spells used on the furniture.”

  Sephira’s gaze shifted to Mariz. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  “It is.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Do your witchery. Him,” she said for Ethan’s benefit, pointing at Mariz. “If you so much as look at your knife, I’ll give Nigel leave to do with you whatever he wishes.”

  Ethan offered no response, but he was thinking about the night before, when Mariz had let him escape after the two of them shared their concerns about failed spells.

  Mariz drew his knife and cut his arm.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Nigel asked of no one in particular.

  “Stand there and look addled,” Ethan said. “Oh, my apologies. You were already doing that.”

  Sephira actually laughed. “Cast your spell,” she said to Mariz.

  Mariz spoke the spell under his breath, so that Ethan could barely make out the Latin. But there could be no mistaking the thrum of power that echoed in the walls and floor of the warehouse. A ghost appeared at Mariz’s shoulder: a young man who looked much like the conjurer, wearing clothes more appropriate to Renaissance Portugal than contemporary Boston, and glowing with a warm beige color that Ethan recalled from his first encounter with the conjurer a year ago.