Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (22 page)

The regulars marched to Boston Common, and while a group broke off from the main column and headed north toward Treamount Street, most entered the Common and there continued to march, seeming to perform for the benefit of those citizens who had accompanied them. Watching this, Ethan couldn’t help but think of Kannice. He wondered where all of these men would be quartered. Governor Bernard and the Massachusetts Council had been arguing the point for weeks, the governor threatening to seize control of publick houses and inns—like the Dowsing Rod—the council claiming that the regulars ought to be billeted at Castle William. So far there had been no resolution, and many feared that lodging the men among Boston’s citizens would lead inevitably to bloodshed. Ethan didn’t fear this might happen; he knew with cold certainty that it would.

He continued to watch the regulars from a distance, aware that he should have been working but unable to ignore what was happening to his city. For so long he had counted himself a loyalist. To the extent that he subscribed to any political persuasion, he had been a Tory. The arrival of these men, though, changed everything. It was one thing to contemplate an occupation. Seeing it begin was another matter entirely. Yes, this was a colony, a holding of the British Empire. But these soldiers didn’t belong here. That was the thought that went through his mind over and over.
This isn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening. They should not be doing this in Boston.
Samuel Adams would have been amused, or perhaps encouraged. Kannice might have been proud of him.

These thoughts consumed him so that he gave little thought to the tingle of power he felt in the soles of his feet, or to the lad who had appeared beside him. That is, until the boy spoke.

“You’re Kaille.”

It was an odd voice, and Ethan knew why as soon as he looked at the boy. He was perhaps ten, with golden hair and ragged clothes, and eyes that glowed like those of Uncle Reg.

Ethan looked around, trying to spot the conjurer who had cast this illusion spell.

“You’re Kaille, right?”

This wasn’t the first time a conjurer had used the image of a child to communicate with him. Memories of those earlier encounters, with a cruel, waiflike creature named Anna, still haunted him.

“Yes, I’m Kaille.”

“Good. Come to Darby’s Wharf.”

“Why?”

“Now, Kaille. We have to talk.”

“Who—?”

The boy vanished before Ethan could finish the sentence. There were few people anywhere near him, and none seemed to have noticed the sudden appearance and disappearance of the lad.

“Damn,” he muttered. Then, “
Veni ad me.
” Come to me.

Uncle Reg appeared, his stance alert. Ethan half expected the ghost to reach for his sword.

“Is my warding still in place?” Ethan asked.

Reg nodded.

“Good. Come with me.”

Ethan left the Common and strode back toward the waterfront with Reg beside him. Darby’s Wharf was close by, which made Ethan wonder if this conjurer might not have been powerful enough to send an illusion spell as far as Ethan himself had sent his illusion earlier in the day, when he alerted Sephira to the attack on Mariz.

When Ethan reached the wharf he found it deserted. Warehouses cast elongated shadows across the pier, chilling the salty air. Small swells from the harbor sloshed against the sides of the wharf, and the ropes tying a single moored ship to a pair of wooden bollards creaked faintly as the vessel shifted.

He slipped his knife from its sheath and stepped onto the wharf, sweeping his gaze over shadowed corners.

A radiant figure stood by a warehouse wall, perhaps twenty yards away. Glancing around one last time, Ethan started toward the image.

It was a man, tall, brawny, thick in the middle. He had a roguish look—a handsome face with a crooked nose and square chin. His hair might have been red, his face ruddy. It was hard to say with the image glowing so. But even though the figure’s eyes gleamed brightly, Ethan could see that one appeared darker in color than the other. The figure glowed as white as the moon, rather than with the true color of Gant’s power. It seemed the thief wished to conceal that from Ethan.

“Gant,” Ethan said as he neared the image. He looked around again, trying to find the conjurer.

“Kaille,” the image said.

“Why are we talking like this?” Ethan asked. “Show yourself.”

The illusion shook its head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been looking for me. Why?”

“Who told you I’ve been looking for you?”

“Why?” Gant asked again.

“You were supposed to be aboard the
Graystone.
You deserted. A good many people are looking for you. It’s not just me.”

“Aye, well, we both know what would have happened if I’d been on the
Graystone.
”

“Do we?” Ethan asked. “It seems to me that if you had been aboard the ship nothing would have happened.”

“What?” The illusion stood stock-still for a few seconds, as if Gant had fallen asleep on his feet. Just as abruptly, it jerked into motion again. “Are you saying you think I killed all those men?”

“Why don’t you tell me who you think did it? Maybe we can figure this out together.”

“Stay away from me, Kaille,” the image said, the voice hardening. “Stop looking for me. Stop asking people about me.”

“Like I said, I’m not the only one. Do you think you can keep Sephira Pryce from finding you? The British army doesn’t like it when soldiers desert. Do you think you can warn them away, too?”

As he spoke, Ethan reached into his pocket for the pouch of mullein, hoping that Gant might not notice. But apparently Gant could see through the eyes of his illusion just as Ethan could through his.

“Stop what you’re doing!” the image said.

Ethan froze, but he didn’t remove his hand from his pocket. He had the pouch in hand, and thought that he could conjure without pulling out individual leaves. He might use more mullein than he intended, but he could buy additional leaves from Janna.

“Let me see your hands!” Gant said.

Ethan had had enough of this. He needed to know where Gant was, and so began to whisper a finding spell under his breath. But he only managed to get out the first word or two when he heard a footfall behind him. Directly behind him.

Ethan spun, desperately trying to yank his hand from his pocket. He caught a glimpse of Gant’s face—one blue eye, one green eye. He didn’t see more except for the mammoth fist that connected high on his cheek. The blow seemed to lift Ethan off of his feet. Tiny points of white light erupted behind his eyes. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back. Although not for long.

Hands grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, hauled him off the ground. Gant dug a fist into Ethan’s gut, doubling him over and stealing his breath. Even as Ethan retched, yet another blow to his jaw sent him sprawling onto his back once more.

Addled, unable to see for the white light, unable to catch his breath, he heard Gant take a step toward him again. Forcing his eyes open he saw a blade glint in the fading daylight.

“You should have listened,” Gant said.

He tasted blood and cast the first spell that came to mind.

“
Ignis ex cruore evocatus.
” Fire, conjured from blood.

Ethan couldn’t direct the spell with any precision—he felt as though the entire wharf were spinning—but he did manage to set Gant’s sleeve ablaze.

Gant swore, slapped at the flames with an open hand, his knife clattering on the ground.

Blood still flowed from the cuts in his mouth, and Ethan cast again. “
Pugnus ex cruore evocatus!
” Fist, conjured from blood.

Gant staggered the way he would have if Ethan had landed a physical blow on the side of his head. By now, the brute had extinguished the flames, but rather than casting a spell of his own, or renewing his assault, he fled. He didn’t even bother to retrieve his blade.

Ethan made no attempt to chase him. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, trying to control the sensation that he was spinning. When at last he opened his eyes again, Uncle Reg stood over him, grinning.

“You find this amusing, don’t you?”

The ghost nodded and started to fade from view.

“No, you’re staying with me,” Ethan said.

Reg frowned, but grew brighter once more.

Ethan staggered to his feet and gingerly touched his fingers to his jaw and cheekbone. Gant’s blows hadn’t broken anything, but if left untended his bruises would look terrible come morning.

He walked back along the wharf to the street, weaving a bit at first, but soon finding his stride. Reg watched him, but Ethan ignored the ghost, pondering what Gant had just done. Why would a conjurer use an illusion spell to call him to the wharf, use another to speak with him, but not use his spellmaking powers to attack? Gant must have known as well as Ethan did that he was strong enough to beat Ethan to within an inch of his life without resorting to conjuring. But he hadn’t even warded himself against Ethan’s attack spells. It made no sense.

Still turning these questions over in his mind, Ethan returned to his room. Upon reaching it, he used two mullein leaves to place a warding spell on his door. Then he lay down and took a long breath.

“
Dimitto te,
” he murmured. I release you. He felt a small pulse of power and knew that Reg was gone.

Some time later, he awoke with a start. His room was completely dark, but beyond that he had no idea of the time. He sat up with some effort, and allowed a wave of dizziness to pass. His bruises felt swollen and fevered and the inside of his mouth felt like he had been chewing on glass.

Without bothering to light a candle or look in a mirror, he cut himself, marked his injuries with the welling blood, and cast a healing spell. The pulse of power still thrummed in the walls when the throbbing pain in his jaw began to abate. He couldn’t keep himself from bruising a little, but he could keep the injuries from bothering him as much as they might if he did nothing.

When he had finished, he opened his door and stood still, listening. Strains of laughter reached him from the south. Closer by, two men were singing an off-key version of “Vain Is Ev’ry Fond Endeavor,” sounding forlorn and very drunk. Ethan assumed that it was late, but not overly so. He left the room and walked to the Dowser, his stomach rumbling.

As he neared Treamount Street, he saw in the distance a cluster of regulars, and heard shouted arguments and raucous laughter coming from a crowd of men who had gathered not far from the soldiers. Rather than pass too close to what appeared to be a dangerous encounter between troops and the citizenry, he circled around through Cornhill and along Brattle Street and approached Kannice’s tavern from the north.

He had expected to find the mood in the Dowser subdued. Most of those who enjoyed Kannice’s ales and chowders also tended to share her political leanings. This should have been a sad day for them all. But upon opening the tavern door, Ethan was buffeted by sounds of celebration. The great room was packed with men and more than a couple of women, all of whom were laughing uproariously and singing “Jolly Mortals Fill Your Glasses.” As Ethan stood in the doorway, Tom Langer, one of Kannice’s usual crowd, climbed onto a table and straightened with some great effort. He raised his tankard, spilling ale on his shoes, and shouted, “God bless Elisha Brown!”

“Elisha Brown!” came the answering cry, followed by more cheers and renewed singing.

Kannice stepped out from behind the bar and put her fists on her hips. “Tom, get down from there before you fall and dent my floor with your skull!” But even she was grinning.

Tom looked at her sheepishly and climbed back down.

Kannice turned and spotted Ethan in the doorway. She canted her head to the side, grimacing and shaking her head. She walked over to him and reached up to his swollen jaw, wincing.

“What have you done now?” she asked.

Ethan shrugged. “I found a man I’d been looking for.”

“Well, aren’t you the clever one,” she said archly. She smiled to soften the words. “Come on, I’ll get you some food and a maybe a raw steak for that face.”

“The food will be enough, thank you,” Ethan said, letting her lead him to the bar. “What’s all this about Elisha Brown?”

Kannice’s eyes danced. “He and a bunch of others are living in the Manufactory on Treamount. When the British commander ordered him and his friends to give up the building for the regulars, he refused. Barricaded himself inside. He’s in there still.”

“And the regulars?”

She waved a hand. “Oh, some are on the Common, others are in Faneuil Hall and the Town House. A few are back down at the wharves.” Her grin returned. “But they’re not in the Manufactory.”

“That’s a dangerous game to be playing with the British army,” Ethan said.

She sobered. “I know,” she said, so that only he could hear. “But it’s given people here in town something to celebrate.”

Kelf placed a bowl of chowder and an ale in front of Ethan. “You’ve looked better,” the big man said.

“My thanks, Kelf.”

“Who was this man you found?” Kannice asked as Kelf moved down the bar to serve some ales.

“Simon Gant, the one I mentioned to you last night.”

“What did he want with you?”

“He wants me to stop looking for him,” Ethan said. “But I still think he might have murdered every man on the
Graystone
, and he very nearly killed the conjurer Sephira has working for her now.”

She frowned. “Wait. You mean he’s a speller, and he beat you with his fists?”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“Frightening is more like it,” Kannice said. “If he can kill every man on that ship, what’s to keep him from killing you any time he pleases?”

Ethan had no answer.

Chapter

T
HIRTEEN

Kannice’s question occupied his thoughts throughout the night. He slept poorly again, his dreams darkened once more by what he assumed were imagined bursts of power that seemed to reverberate through every bone in his body.

He woke to the first gray light of dawn, feeling more exhausted than he had when he lay down the night before, but knowing that he wouldn’t get back to sleep. The five days Hutchinson had given him were slipping away; he needed to find Simon Gant. After lying awake for several moments, he rolled out of bed, dressed silently, and managed to leave the room without waking Kannice.