Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (21 page)

Light had blossomed on Mariz’s chest and spread like a bruise over most of his torso. Orange light, just like the glow Ethan had seen on the dead soldier aboard the
Graystone.

“What is that?” Sephira asked, her voice hushed.

“Power,” Ethan said. “The residue of the spell that struck him in New Boston.”

“But that color. Does all witchcraft look like that?”

“Every conjurer’s power looks different. And this color I’ve seen before.”

She looked up from Mariz, her eyes meeting Ethan’s. “Where?”

“On a dead soldier aboard the
Graystone.
I believe the spell that hit Mariz was cast by Simon Gant.”

Chapter

T
WELVE

Ethan left Sephira’s house a short time later. He had wondered if she might try to keep him there, to force him to tell her more of what he knew. But the idea that Simon Gant had come so close to killing Mariz seemed to have frightened her. Perhaps he should have enjoyed her discomfort, but the truth was it unnerved him.

As he neared the heart of the South End, he saw that the streets were far more crowded than they had been earlier and that almost everyone was heading toward the waterfront. Ethan cut through the smaller lanes, avoiding the mobs, and soon reached Battery March, which afforded him a clear view of the harbor and Long Wharf.

Hundreds of British regulars had already mustered on the wharf. They stood in strict rows, resplendent in red and white, rifles at their sides. Longboats were converging on the wharf from the naval vessels still anchored in a broad arc around the city’s wharves and shipyards. Each of the boats carried additional soldiers, and even from a distance Ethan could see that still more men waited for transport aboard many of the navy ships. The occupation had begun, and by the look of it Ethan guessed that this first wave would bring more than a thousand men into Boston’s streets, more than he had thought, more than Kannice, Kelf, and others had spoken of since the ships appeared in the harbor. This for a city of fifteen thousand people.

There was nothing anyone could do to prevent the regulars from coming ashore. Had there been, Ethan was certain Samuel Adams would have thought of it by now. Rather than watch the soldiers gather on the wharf, Ethan left the South End and made his way up to King’s Chapel.

The chapel was one of Boston’s older churches. It might also have been one of its least attractive. It had been rebuilt several years before, and its refined wooden exterior now was concealed within an austere stone façade. In a city with a history of devastating fires, the new exterior made sense, but it gave King’s Chapel a forbidding, ponderous look. Worse, the chapel remained unfinished, with no spire or bell tower to offset the heavy look of the sanctuary.

Still, Pell seemed to enjoy serving the King’s Chapel congregation, and he always expressed great admiration for the Reverend Henry Caner, the chapel’s rector, a sentiment Ethan did not share.

Within, the chapel was far more welcoming. Graceful columns, painted in shades of tan and brown and crowned with intricate carvings, supported the high ceiling. Sunlight streamed through the windows, two stories high, that lined the main sanctuary, lighting boxed pews of natural wood. A portly man in black robes and a white cravat stood at the raised pulpit beside the altar at the far end of the church. Caner.

He turned at the sound of Ethan’s footsteps, peering across the distance and squinting.

“Who is that?” he asked. He had a deep voice, a homely but friendly face, and a genteel manner; Ethan could see why others liked him.

“It’s Ethan Kaille, Mister Caner.”

Caner straightened, his bushy eyebrows knitting. “What do you want? You’re looking for Trevor, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. He told me—”

“He’s not here.”

“All right. If you can just tell me where to find him, I’ll leave your church.”

“I don’t believe I will tell you, Mister Kaille. But I’ll thank you to leave just the same.”

Theirs was an old feud, and Pell, unfortunately, was their battleground. In fact, their hostility for one another grew out of their shared affection for the young minister. Caner, Ethan knew, wished only to protect Pell from what he believed to be Ethan’s corrupting influence. And though Ethan believed that the rector’s concerns were misplaced, a part of him admired the man’s devotion to Pell.

“I’ll wait for him,” Ethan said, slipping into the nearest pew and sitting.

The rector glowered at him, perhaps thinking that he could cow Ethan into leaving. When he realized that this tactic wouldn’t work, he went back to reading in the enormous Bible perched before him.

After several minutes of this, Caner sighed, the sound echoing in the sanctuary. He descended the curving stairway from the pulpit and walked down the aisle to where Ethan sat.

“You’re holding him back,” the man said. “Don’t you understand that?”

“Holding him back in what way?”

“He’s been with us for several years now. Too many years. He’s been reading for orders. He should have sailed back to England by now for his ordination. He should be out in the countryside, leading a congregation of his own. But as long as you involve him in your intrigues, as long as you convince him that Boston is too exciting to leave, he will never follow his calling.”

At least the rector no longer thought that Ethan was leading Pell to Satan, as once he had. Caner knew that Ethan was a conjurer—although he often called him a witch—but he had come to accept that Ethan usually used his powers for noble purposes. Still, Ethan wasn’t willing to take responsibility for Pell’s career path.

“Mister Pell makes his own choices.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Caner said. “He stays here for you, for the adventure you offer him. For years now I’ve begged you to keep away from him. And still—”

“And still you don’t accept that you do so in vain.”

Ethan and Caner both turned toward the back of the chapel, where Pell was emerging from the stairway leading down to the crypts.

Ethan glanced sidelong at Caner. “I thought you said he wasn’t here.”

Pell’s mouth fell open. “Mister Caner! You lied?”

Caner lifted his chin. “I dissembled.” When neither Ethan nor Pell said anything, he added, “Well, he wasn’t here in the sanctuary.”

“Do you have the names yet,” Ethan asked Pell.

“Yes, I wrote them out for you.”

“What names?” Caner asked.

“The dead from the
Graystone
,” Pell said.

Caner’s gaze flicked from one of them to the other. “You know about that?” he asked Ethan.

“Yes, sir. Geoffrey Brower asked for my assistance with the inquiry.”

“Ah, yes, Brower,” Caner said. “He’s married to your sister, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

The rector started to say more, but couldn’t seem to get the words out. His bow-shaped mouth was frozen in a small “o,” and Ethan could see that the realization had come to him at last. “Do you mean to tell me that … that this was some form of … that witchcraft killed these men?”

“A conjuring,” Ethan said. “Witchcraft is the stuff of children’s nightmares and preachers’ sermons. And yes, that’s precisely what we’re telling you.” He turned back to Pell. “You have the list with you?”

The minister pulled a rolled piece of parchment from within his robes and handed it to Ethan. Ethan opened it and scanned the list, which was not very long—eight names. His eye was drawn to the name about halfway down the page.

“All of these men were from Boston?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

“There’s a name on here—Caleb Osborne—” He trailed off, shaking his head. It was possible that Osborne still had family here in the city. If so, they might not want it known among Boston’s clergymen that Caleb was a conjurer.

“You know him?” Pell asked.

“I’ve heard others speak of him. Is this his address beside the name?” Ethan asked, trying to read Pell’s scrawl. “Fourteen Wood Lane?”

Pell looked over Ethan’s shoulder. “Yes, that’s right.”

Ethan read through the rest of the list, but he didn’t recognize any other names. “All right.” He stood. “Thank you, Mister Pell, Mister Caner.”

“Have you learned anything yet?” Pell called, as Ethan walked back toward the chapel entrance.

“Yes,” Ethan said. “But I don’t understand any of it.”

Wood Lane was back in the North End, near the waterfront and North Square. Number fourteen was a wheelwright’s shop, not a home, but a worn and rickety stairway along the side of the building led to a weathered gray doorway. Ethan climbed the stairs and knocked once.

He heard quick footsteps and the click of the lock. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out at him. She was pale and slight, with dark eyes, and brown hair that she wore in a tight bun.

“Yes?” she said, sounding both suspicious and frightened.

“Missus Osborne?”

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“My name is Ethan Kaille. I’m a thieftaker, and I’m conducting an inquiry for the Customs Board. I wonder if I might speak with you. I won’t take but a few moments of your time.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Your husband.”

She laughed, though the sound was as brittle as dried kindling. “I have no husband.”

“Isn’t this the home of Caleb Osborne?”

“Let him in, Molly,” a second woman said from behind the first.

The first woman looked back over her shoulder. Another moment passed before she opened the door wide and waved Ethan inside.

The room was as small and simple as Ethan’s own. A pair of beds stood near a window that looked out over the narrow yard behind the wheelwright’s shop, and a fire burned in a woodstove near the door. The floors were worn, as was the paint on the walls. A table stood on uneven legs, flanked by two chairs that looked as old as everything else, save for the brightly colored cushions resting on each one.

The second woman stood beside one of these chairs, her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were hazel rather than brown, and she wore her hair in a plait rather than a bun. But she resembled in both complexion and stature the woman who had answered the door.

“Did you say your name was Kaille?” this second woman asked.

“That’s right.”

“My name is Hester Osborne,” she said, her tone grave. She indicated the other woman with an open hand. “This is my younger sister, Molly. Caleb Osborne is our father.”

A small, strangled sound escaped Molly, but she looked more frightened than sorrowful. Hester crossed to her sister and took her hand.

“My pardon,” she said. “I meant to say
was
our father. This has been a difficult day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said. “Both of you have my deepest condolences.”

“Why would the Customs Board be interested in him?”

“They’re interested in learning what happened to his ship.”

“I don’t understand,” the older woman said, still holding her sister’s hand.

As before, Ethan wasn’t certain how much to reveal. “Your father’s death wasn’t the only casualty on board the
Graystone.
I’m wondering if either of you ever heard your father speak of a man named Simon Gant.”

Molly flinched at the name and sidled closer to her sister. Hester put her arm around the woman.

“That should answer your question,” Hester said.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid. He and my father worked together for many years before going off to fight the French. Father didn’t tell any of us—my mother included—what kind of work they did, but I gather that it involved smuggling or thievery or some other kind of mischief. He and my mother fought about it sometimes.”

“Is your mother—?”

“She died some years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said. After a pause he asked, “Have you seen Simon Gant in the last few days?”

Molly stared at the floor, wringing her hands.

The older sister shook her head. “No, and to be honest I hope I never see him again.”

Ethan couldn’t help thinking that this was a common sentiment where Gant was concerned.

“Well, thank you,” he said. “Again, my deepest sympathies to you both.”

“Thank you, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan turned to leave the room, but didn’t move. Facing the women again, he said, “You told me that Gant and your father worked together. Do you know if they had dealings with Sephira Pryce?”

“Miss Pryce?” Hester said. “No, I would have remembered that. Father never mentioned her.”

A frown creased Ethan’s brow. Each time he thought he had found some useful information he learned something else that left him even more confused than he had been before.

“I see,” he said. “Well again, thank you.”

He let himself out of the room, descended the stairs, and walked out onto Gallop’s Wharf with his hands buried in his pockets. Long Wharf lay to the south, bathed in the warm glow of the late-afternoon sun. The water sparkled, and gulls wheeled overhead. Regulars were still massed on the pier, arrayed in neat columns. Ethan saw no more longboats in the water. A train of artillery had been brought ashore as well, adding to the show of force.

An officer stood near the men barking orders, his voice at this distance mingling with the strident cries of the gulls. Several other officers waited at the base of the wharf; Ethan wondered if the captain he had met at Castle William was among them. As the regulars began to march off the pier, officers took command of smaller units and led them into the streets of Boston.

Ethan started back toward the South End, staying close to the waterfront so that he could mark the progress of the troops. For so large a force, they vacated Long Wharf rapidly. By the time Ethan had crossed back into the South End and was nearing King Street, the last of the regulars were marching through the city. They carried muskets fixed with bayonets, and they marched to the steady rhythm of several drums and the high sweet notes of a corps of fife players. Young men bore flags at the van, and behind the soldiers horses pulled the artillery pieces.

Men, women, and children lined the streets to watch the procession. Most were grim-faced, although a few men near the Town House made their approval obvious, nodding ostentatiously, emboldened in their support of the Crown by the arrival of the troops. But what struck Ethan was the silence of the crowd. Few people spoke; he heard no cheers or jeers. Still, many in the throng followed the men. Ethan did the same, driven by his curiosity.