A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (12 page)

But how were the two connected?

The sun had started its long descent through the western sky, and the streets of Boston had begun to empty. It would be light for several hours more, but already Ethan could smell cooking fires and the aromas of roasting fowl and fish. It seemed that this day had lasted forever, and with the promise he had made to Ruth and Darcy, it was far from over. But a half plate of oysters and some ale had done little to take the edge off his hunger.

He headed back to the Dowser, his thoughts racing in a hundred different directions. Fear for himself had given way to cold anger at the thought of a conjurer somehow using him to harm his friends. Patience had never done a cruel deed in her life; she deserved peace.

Ethan heard a commotion ahead of him, and looked up in time to see a small cluster of people walking toward him, two of them carrying someone in a sedan, with a black cloth covering. A young man, tall, well-dressed in a black coat and breeches, walked several yards ahead. He had short powdered hair and dark, expressive eyes. Ethan thought that he had seen him before, though he couldn’t recall where.

“Please stand aside, sir,” the man called, as he drew near. “We are bearing this child to the Province Hospital.”

Ethan stepped off the road, taking care to stand on the upwind side. Province Hospital, which was located on the remote western edge of New Boston, was also called the Pest House. It was where those unfortunates who fell ill with the most contagious of distempers were sent to recover. Or not. Ethan had little doubt that the person in the oncoming sedan had been taken with smallpox. Which meant that this gentleman before him …

“Might you be Doctor Warren?” Ethan asked him.

“Yes, I am,” the man said, his manner sober, his voice strong. “Doctor Joseph Warren, at your service. Have we met, sir?”

“No. I know you by reputation. But those who speak of you do so with admiration. It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And you are?”

“Forgive me. Ethan Kaille. I’m—”

“A thieftaker. Yes, I know. Yours is a name one hears with some frequency as well.”

“Followed by an imprecation, no doubt,” Ethan said, and smiled.

For the first time, the man grinned, and it seemed that ten years fell away from his features. “Not at all. Some instruments were stolen from my office a year or so ago. An associate mentioned you, thinking I might wish to engage your services.”

“Mister Adams, perhaps?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Warren said, with obvious surprise.

“But you went to someone else?” Ethan asked, thinking of Sephira.

“Actually, no. I recovered them myself, from a patient who was less than pleased with services I had provided.”

“I believe, Doctor, that you might be in the wrong line of work.”

Warren’s grin flashed again, though it faded as he watched the sedan holding his patient—a boy of perhaps twelve years—pass by, followed by a man and woman Ethan assumed were the stricken lad’s parents.

“Smallpox?” Ethan asked, gazing after them.

“Aye.”

“In that case, I won’t keep you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor Warren.”

“And you, Mister Kaille.” He glanced down the road. “Avoid crowds if you can. And give any house bearing a red flag a wide berth.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He tipped his hat to the man, and they went their separate ways. It occurred to Ethan that if he was interested in robbing graves, and wanted to find corpses that hadn’t been dead for long, he would come to a city like Boston in the middle of the summer, when disease was prevalent. The bodies might be infected for a few days after the poor souls died, perhaps even for a week. But after that, the resurrectionists could begin their grim harvest.

He usually arrived at the Dowser later in the evening, after the dinner hour, when Kannice’s regular clientele crowded around tables and the bar. This early in the day, there were fewer patrons in the great room, and many of those present were dressed in red and white uniforms.

Over the past several years, Kannice had become ever more vocal in her opposition to the taxes and tariffs imposed on the colonies by Parliament and enforced by the Crown. The arrival of occupying troops, and their expectation that they could eat in publick houses without having to pay for their food, had convinced her that Britain could no longer lay claim to the loyalty of her American subjects.

There were perhaps twenty-five regulars in the tavern, all of them crowded around five tables in the center of the great room. They were speaking in loud voices, laughing lustily at one joke or another.

Kannice stood behind the bar, a dishcloth slung over her shoulder. The look in her bright blue eyes could have melted steel. Kelf hovered beside her, though whether because he feared for her safety or the safety of the soldiers Ethan couldn’t say. So intent was she on the regulars that she didn’t notice that Ethan had come in until he planted himself in front of her.

She started, but then a smile crossed her lips. “I didn’t see you,” she said.

“You had your mind on other things.”

Her pleasure at seeing him gave way to a scowl. “They’ve already spilled four ales,” she whispered. “It’s not enough that they take my food and drink without offering to pay so much as a penny, but then they slosh it about like it’s naught more than water. And who do you think gets to clean it up?”

“Kelf?” Ethan asked, feigning innocence.

The barkeep snorted. Kannice glared at them.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know,” Ethan said. “I’m sorry.”

“Where’s the rum-dell?” one of the soldiers called, holding an empty tankard over his head.

“Rum-dell am I now?” Kannice said through clenched teeth. She tried to push Kelf out of her way so that she could step out from behind the bar. Ethan thought it likely that she intended to shove the tankard into the soldier’s ear, or perhaps elsewhere.

“I’ll go,” Kelf said. “No sense gettin’ us shut down.”

He filled a tankard, pasted a smile on his face, and walked out into the great room. “Here ya go, sir,” he said, his voice pitched to carry. “Never been called a rum-dell before; I think I like it.”

The soldiers laughed uproariously. Kannice seethed.

“Kelf’s right, you know. They’re not worth getting angry over, or doing something you’ll regret.”

“Something stupid, you mean?”

Ethan didn’t reply, and a grin crept across her lovely face.

“Afraid to answer?” she asked.

“Very.”

She laughed. “What would you like to eat, Mister Kaille?”

“Whatever they’re having. What’s good enough for the king’s men is good enough for me.” He leaned forward and winked at her. “Just don’t spit in mine,” he whispered.

She laughed again and walked back into the kitchen, returning moments later with a bowl of fish chowder and a round of bread. Ethan fished in his pocket.

“Don’t you dare,” Kannice said, growling the words.

Despite her warning, he pulled out a half shilling. “You’re having to give away too much food tonight. Let me pay for this.”

She glowered at him, but when he didn’t shrink from her gaze, she took the coin. “Tonight,” she said. Her smile returned, deepened. “Speaking of tonight, will you be here?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

“I know. But I have a previous engagement with a ghost.”

She sobered in an instant. “Tell me.”

He glanced back at the soldiers.

“In here,” she said, gesturing toward the back rooms behind the bar.

Ethan walked around the bar and joined her in the kitchen, where a large pot of chowder simmered over a cooking fire. He related to her what he had seen at King’s Chapel and the other burying grounds, as well as what Darcy and Ruth Walters had wanted of him. The lone detail he omitted was the mutilation of the cadavers’ feet. She would have worried, and he remained so perplexed as to what it might mean that he wouldn’t have been able to ease her mind.

As it was, by the time he had finished, her forehead was creased and her lips pressed thin. “Where would you even begin to look for the people who did this?”

“That’s a fine question. If they’re conjurers, they’ll cast eventually, and I’ll feel their spell.”

Her expression hardened. “Didn’t you tell me that Sephira Pryce has a conjurer working for her now?”

“I’ve considered that,” Ethan said. “This doesn’t feel like something with which Sephira would involve herself. Too much effort, not enough profit.”

She started to say more, but Ethan stopped her with a raised hand. “I plan to speak with Mariz anyway. Even if he isn’t involved, he might have some ideas as to who is.”

“And you expect him to help you? Sephira’s man?” She laid the back of her hand on his brow. “You must have taken a fever.”

Ethan grinned.

“Come on. Your chowder is getting cold.” She took his hand and pulled him back out to the bar.

Ethan ate and sipped his ale. As he did, though, he thought about what he had said to Kannice. Speaking to Mariz was not as odd an idea as Kannice thought. If this actually was Sephira’s doing, she would be relying on the bespectacled man’s conjuring abilities. And if she had nothing to do with the grave desecrations, Mariz might well prove a valuable source of information.

A year before, Sephira’s man was grievously wounded in a confrontation with other conjurers. Drawn to the site of the encounter by the thrumming of the spells, Ethan found Mariz, healed him as best he could, and summoned Sephira’s other toughs so that they could take the man back to her estate. Mariz remained unconscious for days, and when at last he woke he named himself Ethan’s friend, without Sephira’s knowledge, and swore to come to Ethan’s aid should Ethan have need.

“I still work for Miss Pryce, and I will follow what orders she gives me,” the man said at the time. “But when I am not acting on her behalf, I am free to honor whatever friendships I choose. And like it or not, Kaille, you and I are now friends.”

Janna hadn’t known what to make of the robberies and the symbols carved into the corpses. Maybe Mariz would.

After some time, the regulars sauntered out of the Dowsing Rod. No more than a minute later, as if they had been watching the tavern door, several of Kannice’s usual patrons filed in. Ethan finished a second bowl of chowder, and lingered over a second ale until at last night fell.

He waited until Kannice and Kelf had carried another tureen of chowder from the kitchen—to the cheers of Kannice’s hungry customers—before picking up his tricorn from the bar and catching Kannice’s eye. She was speaking to Tom Langer, one of her usual crowd. Ethan saw her falter, her grin slipping. He nodded once to her. She forced a small, thin smile in return.

He wended his way through the crowd to the tavern door, and slipped out into the warm air. It was another hazy night; the gibbous moon cast dull shadows across the lanes. A freshening breeze out of the west carried the suggestion of rain, and perhaps a respite from the heat. But thus far this had been a summer of empty thunder and deceptive zephyrs.

The streets of New Boston were largely deserted, and because this part of the city was sparsely populated, they were dark as well. Faint candlelight from a few windows spilled out onto the cobblestone lanes, but Ethan had to place his feet with care on the uneven pavement.

The Walters house was more brightly lit than most; its windows beckoned to him with a welcoming glow. No one passing by would have guessed that the family within had been haunted by a shade, which perhaps was the point.

Ethan approached the house and knocked once on the door. After several moments, it opened. Ruth stood before him, holding Benjamin, who was crying.

“She’s here,” the woman said, and walked back into the common room.

He removed his hat and entered, shutting the door behind him.

Darcy stood at the mouth of the corridor that led to Patience’s bedroom. His face was careworn, his upper lip beaded with sweat.

“Thank you for coming back, Ethan,” he said over the sound of his son’s fussing.

“She’s back there?” Ethan asked.

Darcy nodded, swallowed.

“Let’s go see her,” he said, trying to infuse the words with a confidence he didn’t feel.

Darcy faced Ruth. “Do you want to—?”

“We’ll wait out here,” she said, her voice tight.

He nodded and led Ethan to the back room.

The shade of Patience Walters made no effort to conceal herself. When Darcy and Ethan entered the room, she was by the window, gazing outside. Perhaps she could hear them, for she turned as they stopped in the center of the room. She looked first at her son before turning to stare at Ethan, and while she offered nothing by way of greeting—no gesture, no change in her countenance—she kept her eyes fixed on his.

She looked much as Ethan remembered her; through the murky green glow that clung to her like silver mist on blades of grass, he could see the lines around her mouth and eyes, the smooth brow and high cheekbones, her upturned nose. She was dressed in a simple gown and petticoats; a kerchief covered her head.

Her eyes shone so brightly that at first Ethan didn’t realize Patience was the sole source of light in the bedroom. Darcy had not lit the candle on her chest of drawers.

“Try speaking to her,” Ethan said.

Darcy glanced his way, looking nervous. But he gave a nod and faced his mother again. “Can you hear me, Mother?”

The shade fixed her gleaming eyes on him and, after several moments, nodded slowly.

“My God,” Darcy whispered. “Are you all right? Has something happened to bring you back to us?”

She didn’t reply in any way. After staring at Darcy for a few seconds more, she turned back to Ethan. Her movements were slow, graceful; she almost appeared to be underwater. She reached with her right hand to her left arm, and began to push up the sleeve of her gown.

“What is she doing?” Darcy asked.

“Did she use blood to conjure?”

“Yes, sometimes, but—” Darcy raised a hand to his mouth, reminding Ethan of Patience. “You’re right. That’s just what she’s doing. Can she—?”

“No,” Ethan said. “But I can. I think that’s what she wants.”