Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (20 page)

Sephira considered him for what seemed an eternity.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you trying to help him?”

“Because I’m beginning to understand that there’s someone out here who’s more dangerous than Mariz. You’re wasting time, Sephira, and I’m not sure how long he has.”

Still she hesitated. The mistrust between them ran deep, and had for too long. It had become a habit, as hard to give up as liquor. At last she turned to Nigel and the others and said simply, “Go.” Yellow-hair sheathed his knife and led Nap and Gordon from the room.

Facing the image of Ethan again, Sephira asked, “Can you heal him?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try.”

“Do you know who did this to him?”

“I think we both know, don’t we?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She managed to say it without averting her eyes, without blushing, without any change in her expression or the tone of her voice. Ethan supposed that there was something admirable in the ease with which she could lie, even as one of her men lay dying in the street. He wasn’t above admitting that there were times when he wished he could do something equally cold-blooded. But it served to remind him of the obvious: that despite his willingness to help Mariz and thus help her, he and she remained mortal enemies.

“Fine, Sephira. I’ll see you soon.”

“Ethan!” she said, before he could release the illusion spell. She stared at his image, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

He let the spell end, opening his eyes and squinting against the glare of the midday sun.

Mariz hadn’t moved, but he still appeared to be breathing, though with difficulty. Ethan leaned over the man and felt his limbs, his touch light, gentle. None of the bones seemed to be broken. Looking more closely at the one arm that had been pinned beneath Mariz, Ethan saw that while the bone remained whole, the elbow had been dislocated. He had seen similar injuries on the plantation in Barbados and knew how to mend it without resorting to a conjuring. He gripped the man’s upper arm firmly in one hand and the lower arm in the other, thinking that Mariz was lucky to be unconscious for this. With a sharp motion he snapped the joint back into its normal position. Feeling the bones grind against one another, he winced in sympathy.

When Ethan was done, he sat back on his heels and exhaled heavily. After several seconds, he turned his attention to the conjurer’s ribs, which were fractured in a number of places.

Before he could try a healing spell, however, Ethan heard voices approaching. Several children and two women were walking toward him, dressed in their church finery. Ethan was still bent low in the grass, which may have been why they hadn’t seen him yet. He cut himself and whispered, “
Velamentum nobis ambobus, ex cruore evocatum.
” Concealment, both of us, conjured from blood.

In the last hour, he had cast enough spells to draw the attention of every conjurer in Boston. Gant could have shown up at any moment, and he would have seen Uncle Reg’s glowing form, even if he couldn’t spot Ethan. But the women and children felt and saw nothing. They strolled past without so much as a glance toward Ethan and Spectacles, the children laughing and running, the women chatting amiably.

Ethan saw that others were heading in his direction as well. Sabbath services were over. The road would be more crowded now. But Mariz continued to labor with every breath. While the next group of churchgoers was still some distance off, Ethan cut himself and gently rubbed blood onto Mariz’s side. He then spoke another spell in the softest of whispers, his bloodied hands covering the spot where Mariz’s ribs had broken.

“
Remedium ex cruore evocatum.
” Healing, conjured from blood.

This was more complicated spellmaking, and harder to maintain. He held his hands steady, and allowed the power of his conjuring to course through his fingers into Mariz’s bones. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he didn’t pause, knowing that healing spells worked best when the power flowed uninterrupted into flesh and bone.

The second cluster of people walked past him—three couples this time, one with a small child—and yet another appeared on the lane in the distance.

All the while, Ethan could feel Mariz’s ribs gradually knitting back together beneath his hands. The man didn’t stir, but his breathing grew deeper, more rhythmic. When at last Ethan allowed his spell to dissipate, he felt reasonably sure that he had mended the broken bones.

He heard a distant rattle. Looking southward, he saw a black carriage led by a large bay turn onto Chambers Street from Cambridge.

Ethan cut his arm again. “
Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.
” End concealment, conjured from blood.

He felt the pulse of power in his knees and legs where they rested in the grass. Glancing at Uncle Reg, he saw that the ghost was watching him, a disapproving scowl on his lean, glowing face.

“I take it you think I should have left him here to die,” Ethan said.

The ghost stared at him for another second before looking away, his mouth twitching beneath his mustache. Ethan suppressed a grin. Usually Reg made him feel foolish for one lapse or another; it felt good to return the favor.

He stood to face the oncoming carriage. Nigel sat atop the box, steering; Nap and Gordon rode within the carriage, leaning out the doors and eyeing Ethan. Yellow-hair eased back on the reins so that the bay halted just beside Ethan. At first, none of Sephira’s men moved. They simply watched him.

“Mariz is here,” he said, pointing at the wounded man, but keeping his gaze on Nigel.

Yellow-hair glanced down at Mariz before looking at Ethan again. “How do we know that you didn’t do tha’ to him?”

“You’ll just have to take my word for it.” When that didn’t appear to convince the man, Ethan added, “If I had attacked him, why would I stay here and call for all of you?”

Nigel’s mouth twisted in doubt, but he reached back and tapped twice on the door closest to Nap. Nap and Gordon hopped out of the carriage and made their way over to Spectacles.

“Be careful with him,” Ethan said. “Four of his ribs were broken. I think that at least one of them pierced his lung. And I don’t know what kind of head injuries he has, but he hasn’t moved or made a sound since I found him.”

Nap nodded once, and he and Gordon lifted the man and carried him to the carriage. They placed him on the long seat opposite where they had been riding and climbed back in themselves.

“Miss Pryce wants you to come back with us,” Nigel said.

Ethan had been prepared for this. There was no more room within the carriage, and so he climbed onto the box beside Nigel, and gripped it hard as the big man flicked the reins and the carriage pitched forward.

Ethan and Yellow-hair said nothing to each other the entire distance back to Sephira’s house. They passed right by the Dowsing Rod and, a short time later, King’s Chapel. Ethan wondered what Kannice or Pell would have thought had they seen him riding a carriage with Sephira Pryce’s toughs. He grinned at the idea, drawing an odd look from Nigel.

When they reached the Pryce estate, Nigel drove up a dirt path that led to the back of the house and stopped the carriage near a side door. Afton, Mariz’s friend from the Dowser, was waiting by the door and lumbered over to the cart as soon as it had halted.

“What happened to him?” the man asked, staring hard at Ethan.

“He was attacked by a conjurer,” Ethan said. “I didn’t see it, so I don’t know who it was. He had broken ribs, a dislocated elbow, and I’d guess a blow to the head as well.”

Afton helped Nap and Gordon take Mariz into the house. He paused at the doorway, though, and looked back at Nigel, who had remained with Ethan.

“Miss Pryce is in the study,” Afton said, his eyes flicking in Ethan’s direction. He disappeared into the house.

“You heard him,” Nigel said.

Ethan let the tough lead him inside, through a small chamber, the kitchen, and the dining room until at last they came to the study. As he had during previous visits to Sephira’s mansion, Ethan deemed that “study” was not the proper word for the room. He imagined that men like Samuel Adams and James Otis had studies filled with books and papers from the colonies and England, perhaps even from France and Spain. Only a woman like Sephira could have filled a chamber with wood and glass cases containing every imaginable variety of firearm and blade, and called it a “study.”

Sephira sat in a plush chair in the far corner of the room, a half-empty glass of Madeira next to her on a small but elegant wooden table. Her legs were crossed, her arms resting on the arms of the chair. Her long black curls snaked around her neck and draped over her shoulder.

Ethan had a feeling that she had been waiting for him. She pointed at a chair that was identical to hers and said, “Sit.” To Nigel, she said, “Get the door,” a dismissal in the words.

Ethan did as she instructed. For once, Nigel had forgotten to take Ethan’s weapons from him. He had a knife on his belt and that pouch of mullein in his coat pocket. If he wanted to, he could destroy her.

“Tell me again what happened,” Sephira said.

Ethan explained to her how he had felt the initial spell and had followed the pulse of power to the North End, only to be drawn to New Boston by two more conjurings. He told her about finding Mariz, and listed the man’s injuries and what he had done to heal him.

“He still needs a doctor,” Ethan told her.

“I’ve already called for one. But it sounds…” She looked down at the rings on her fingers, twisted one into place. “I believe we owe you a word of thanks.”

“You can show your appreciation by answering some questions for me.”

Her laugh was dry—not the usual throaty laugh that he liked so much in spite of himself. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Was he looking for Gant?”

Her gaze lingered on Ethan as she reached for her wine and took a long sip.

“If he can do this to Mariz,” Ethan said, “and if he knows that you’re after him, he might come looking for you.”

She smiled. “Ethan, you’re worried about me. I’m touched.”

“I want to find Gant.”

Her smile hardened. “And you thought you could frighten me into helping you? You believe I’m afraid of Simon Gant?”

“Why was Mariz looking for him? What is it you want with him?”

“I’m grateful to you,” she said. “And when Mariz wakes up—if he wakes up—I’ll tell him what you did. That seems the least I can do.” She stood. “You can go now.”

Ethan remained in his chair. “No, I can’t,” he said.

She stared down at him and narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“There’s a spell I need to cast first. There’s nothing any of you can do to stop me from casting it, but I was hoping you would give me your permission.”

“What kind of spell?”

“One that might tell me who cast the spell that hurt him.”

Sephira didn’t say anything at first. But Ethan could see her mind working as she calculated the costs, the risks, the possible benefits of letting him proceed.

“All right,” she said after some time. “I’ll let you cast your spell.” A thin smile touched her lips. “Since I can’t do anything to stop you.”

“Thank you.” Ethan stood. “Where is he?”

“I had him taken upstairs. Come.”

She led him back through the common room to a broad stairway with dark wooden steps and a carved banister to match. The stairs reached a landing halfway up, and continued both to the right and left, reaching an open balcony that looked down on the stairway. On the wall above the landing hung a portrait of Sephira that very nearly did justice to her beauty. The artist had rendered her in her usual street dress: breeches, waistcoat, a white shirt open at the neck. She was posed sitting in her study in a high-backed chair that bore more than a passing resemblance to a throne. Ethan passed the portrait without comment.

Sephira’s men had put Mariz in a cramped bedroom at the far end of the upstairs corridor. Aside from the small bed and a bureau of drawers near the single window, the room was unfurnished and quite plain compared to the rest of the house. There were a few personal items on top of the bureau—a cotton kerchief, a hairbrush, a pair of simple sewing scissors—leading Ethan to guess that this was the quarters of one of Sephira’s servants.

A man who Ethan assumed was a doctor stood beside the bed, bending over Mariz, who lay on top of the covers.

Afton hovered on the other side of the bed, glaring at Ethan.

“Has he moved or made any sound?” Ethan asked.

The doctor looked up from his patient and shook his head. “He’s having some difficulty breathing, but I can’t see why. And there’s a welt on the back of his head. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for him. He needs rest, and time.”

“Very well,” Sephira said. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Of course, Miss Pryce. I’ll come back tomorrow if you like.”

“Yes, fine.”

The man closed up his medical case, glanced at Ethan again, and left the room.

“Leave us,” Sephira said to Afton.

The big man looked like he might argue, but seemed to think better of it. He cast one final warning glance at Ethan and left as well.

Once Ethan and Sephira were alone, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall that was farthest from the bed. “Go ahead.”

He had cast spells against her and her men many times, but Ethan had never conjured while Sephira watched him. He had to admit that it made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t say why.

He pushed up his sleeve again and pulled the knife from his belt.

“You’ve had that the entire time?” Sephira asked.

Ethan grinned, knowing that Nigel would have some explaining to do.

He cut his arm, dabbed blood on Mariz’s face and neck, and drawing on the blood that continued to flow from his arm said, “
Revela potestatem ex cruore evocatam.
” Reveal power, conjured from blood.

His spell rang through the floors and walls of the house. Uncle Reg winked into view and bared his teeth at Sephira. She, of course, was oblivious of all of it. But a moment later, she gave a small gasp.