Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (29 page)

“He’s a ship’s surgeon in the navy. Do you remember who I went to see first thing yesterday morning?”

Kannice’s brow creased. “You mean Mister A—”

“Yes,” Ethan said. “The doctor is a friend of his, though few know it. Do you understand?”

She regarded Rickman again, considering him anew. “Yes, of course.”

“I’ll be back. If Diver comes in, tell him to wait for me.”

“I will,” Kannice said.

Ethan took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“I don’t like the places this job is taking you,” Kannice whispered. “Be careful.”

He nodded, then led Rickman out of the tavern and into the cold rain.

They walked in silence for some distance, both with heads bowed. Ethan hunched his shoulders against the elements, his hands buried in his pockets. Rickman held his black tricorn hat in place with one hand, and secured his collar with the other. The sky had darkened, and a chilling mist had settled over the city, shifting constantly, swept along streets and alleys by gusts of wind. The smell of wood fires mingled with the cool scent of rain and the mustiness of fallen leaves: autumn in Boston.

They passed the Manufactory, where all was now quiet. A few of the second-floor windows glowed with candlelight, and the building’s brick exterior glistened with rain, so that the stone itself seemed to be bleeding. But most of the regulars had withdrawn and the crowd had dispersed. A small company of soldiers still stood nearby, eyeing the Manufactory, their uniforms sodden and their expressions sullen. Ethan wondered how long Brown could hold out before the British returned in greater numbers and resorted to more forceful means of taking the building.

They followed one of the side roads to Newbury Street and continued southward toward the Neck, stepping around filthy puddles in the cobblestone, and turning their shoulders when passing carriages and chaises splattered them.

“What is this woman’s name?” Rickman asked at length, raising his voice to be heard over the rain and wind.

“Janna Windcatcher.”

“Windcatcher? What manner of name is that?”

“One she made up.” At Rickman’s puzzled look, Ethan added, “She was a slave once, and managed to win and keep her freedom. She named herself.”

“So she’s a Negro?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

The doctor shook his head. “Not as long as she can be trusted. Can she?”

A thousand responses crossed his mind in the heartbeat that followed. Ethan had trusted her with his life in the past and would do so again without hesitation. On the other hand, he had no idea where her sympathies lay—Tory or Whig—and he didn’t know how she would respond to seeing Rickman’s uniform.

“I trust her,” he said at last.

“That’s not quite what I’m asking,” Rickman said, sounding annoyed. “I want to know if she’ll betray my confidence. Of course you trust her. She’s your friend. But I’m—”

Ethan’s laughter stopped the man short.

“You find this amusing?” Rickman asked.

“Forgive me, Doctor. You said that Janna’s my friend. I don’t know that Janna would agree with you. She’s a … a difficult woman, regardless of how well one knows her.”

The doctor scowled, reminding Ethan of Janna. Rainwater dripped from his hat and ran down the lines in his face. “Perhaps this is a bad idea,” he said.

“We want to know if Osborne is still alive. I don’t even know if it’s possible. Janna knows more about conjuring than anyone in Boston, and I swear to you that no one will learn of our conversation from her. Not Osborne or Gant, and not Senhouse or Preston.”

Rickman’s frown lingered, but he walked on toward the Fat Spider, and he asked no more questions.

When they reached Janna’s tavern, though, the doctor faltered, eyeing the building doubtfully. Ethan couldn’t blame him. It appeared to sag under the onslaught of the storm, and as he did so often, Ethan wondered if this would be the day the structure gave way.

Still, he strode to the door and pulled on the handle. The door didn’t open.

Ethan frowned. “It’s locked,” he said. “That’s damned peculiar.”

“Perhaps she closed early this evening,” Rickman said.

“Janna never closes early.” Ethan knocked on the weathered door. “Janna? Are you in there?”

After a few moments he knocked again. He didn’t like this; not at all. Something wasn’t right.

He knocked one last time and just as he started to consider breaking the lock with a spell, the door opened, although only a crack. Aromas of fresh bread and roasting meat seeped out into the cold night air. Janna peered out at him. “Kaille,” she said, stretching out his name so that it sounded like a malediction.

“Are you closed, Janna?”

“Damn right I am,” she said. “Soldiers came an’ shut me down. Can you imagine that? Fifteen years I’ve been here, an’ they just come in an’ shut me down, just like that.”

“When?”

“Just an hour or two ago. I was cookin’ at the time, gettin’ ready for the evenin’ crowd.” She shook her head. “They shut me down,” she said again, disbelieving.

“Did they say why?” Ethan asked. But even as he asked the question he was thinking back on his conversation with Thomas Hutchinson two days before. He sensed that somehow this was directed at him, that it was a warning of more dire actions to come.

“Didn’t tell me nothin’,” Janna said. She glanced at Rickman, her expression guarded.

“Can we come in?”

“Why?” she asked in the same tone she had used to say his name.

“I need help with—”

“No!” she said. “No, no, no! Do you see that this is a business? D’you even understand what that means? I sell food. I sell ale. I sell all sorts of things. I don’t care that I’m closed down. This is still a business;
my
business. I don’t earn nothin’ by helpin’ you with whatever you’re workin’ on.”

“I know that. But we’ve got—”

“No!” She leveled a bony finger at him. “I’ve done enough for you. And I’m tired—”

“That bread smells very good,” Rickman said.

Ethan and Janna looked his way.

“What kind of meat is that you’re cooking?”

“Venison,” Janna told him, sounding suspicious and looking him up and down. “And some duck, too. Got it from a friend of mine who hunts just over near Roxbury.”

“Well, Miss Windcatcher, I know that you’re closed down, but it’s cold out here and I’m feeling a bit peckish.” The doctor dug into his pocket and pulled out a half crown—a good deal more than the cost of two meals and a few ales. He held it up so that it glinted with the candlelight from within the tavern. “I’d like some of that venison, please. And some bread.” He looked at Ethan. “An ale for you?”

Janna kept her eyes fixed on the coin.

“Aye, thank you,” Ethan said.

Janna still stood in the doorway, though she held the door open a bit wider now. She wore an odd expression on her wizened face. It took Ethan a moment to realize that she was trying not to laugh. At last she stepped back from the door and gestured them inside, all the while shaking her head. “Take a table by the fire,” she said, not bothering to look their way. “I’ll be right out.”

Ethan motioned Rickman inside and then followed him into the smoky warmth and dim light. His eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness, but he wasted no time in shaking the rain off his coat and crossing to the fire to warm himself. After a few moments he joined Rickman at one of the tables.

“I don’t think she likes you very much,” Rickman said, keeping his voice low.

“I know. And she likes me more than she does anyone else in this city.”

Janna emerged from the kitchen a short time later bearing a large trencher that held slices of steaming meat, and a small loaf of brown bread. She placed that in front of them and brought them a pair of ales. Even after she had put the tankards on the table, she continued to stand over them.

Rickman took a bite of meat and washed it down with a swig of ale. “Excellent!” he said, looking up at her.

Janna shifted her weight to her other foot, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Thank you.”

“Why don’t you sit, Miss Windcatcher?”

Her gaze slid toward Ethan. He nodded once and sipped his ale.

She pulled a chair over and lowered herself into it.

“Ask your questions,” Rickman said to Ethan.

“A man has disappeared. Another one. I know he was a conjurer, but I don’t know what he was capable of doing. When I saw him last, he was dead. Or he appeared to be. I need to know if a conjurer could feign his own death—make it appear to others that he wasn’t breathing, that his heart had stopped, that his limbs were stiffening—and then come back to life later, when no one was nearby. Or is it possible for one conjurer to bring another back from death, assuming that the second man really had died?”

“Kaille,” Janna said again, regarding him with the disappointment a mother might show for a wayward son. “All the time you ask me if spells can do this or spells can do that. Haven’t you learned yet? Spells can do anythin’ if the conjurer castin’ them is strong enough.”

Ethan felt the blood drain from his face, making his cheeks grow cold. “So—”

“So, a man who looked like he was dead, might not have been. Or a man who died, might be alive again.”

“How?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” she said. Her eyes flicked toward Rickman, who watched her with interest and chewed another bite of meat. “Before I say more, who are you?”

“Forgive me,” Ethan said. “Tarijanna Windcatcher, this is Doctor William Rickman. He’s the ship’s surgeon aboard the
Launceston.
”

“British military shut me down,” she said, an accusation in the words.

“I know. But Doctor Rickman can be trusted. You have my word on that.”

Janna regarded him solemnly. She might have been mad at him for asking these questions of her again and again, but she knew what his word was worth. “And what’s he doin’ with you?” she asked, turning her gaze on the doctor once more.

“He’s helping me with an inquiry. I’m still trying to figure out what was done with that powerful spell that woke us both up on Wednesday morn.”

She turned his way. “It’s not just that spell. There’s been plenty of magick the past few days.”

“I know,” Ethan said. “Some of it has been mine, but not all. Not nearly.”

She considered this, pursing her lips. “Thing about all those spells I mentioned—the ones that can revive a corpse, or make someone appear dead?—one man couldn’t do them alone.”

“Right,” Ethan said. “Because a dead conjurer would need to be brought back by another. He couldn’t raise himself.”

“That’s right. And neither could your man who’s just pretendin’ to be dead. If he looks dead enough to fool other people, he can’t just come back later on his own. He’d need help.”

Help. Simon Gant. Ethan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He could feel a headache building. “Aye,” he said. “He has help.” He looked at her. “You said there had been plenty of spells cast in the past few days. There will be even more if Osborne and Gant are working together.”

“Simon Gant?” she asked.

Ethan straightened, his eyebrows going up. “Do you know him?”

She regarded him with manifest disdain. “Is there a conjurer in this city I don’t know? I’ve known Gant longer than I’ve known you.” She shook her head. “But he’s not the one who’s runnin’ around Boston castin’ all these spells.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“He’s weak,” she said. “He can’t do much more than illusion spells.”

“Do you know that for certain?” Ethan asked, incredulous.

He saw doubt flicker in her dark eyes.

“Well, he couldn’t before, when he used to live here.”

“That was a long time ago, Janna. Seven years. I’ve learned a good deal about conjuring in that time.”

“Yeah, you have,” she agreed. “But it was more than him not knowin’ spells. He didn’t have the power.”

“I’ve encountered him twice now,” Ethan said. “And now that you say it, I think you might be right: He isn’t very powerful. He doesn’t like to rely on his conjuring abilities, either. But Osborne is alive again, or still. He and Gant are partners.” He reached for the ale, but thought better of drinking any more of it. His head had started to pound. Two conjurers were roaming the city, working together, both of them looking for the pearls, no doubt. No wonder it had seemed for the past several days that he was always one step behind. He was fortunate to have kept up with the men as well as he had.

Rickman ate the last of his bread and meat, still watching Ethan and Janna. Ethan tried to overcome the feeling of helplessness that had settled over him with Janna’s revelations about the spells. He felt addled; the worsening pain in his head had clouded his thoughts.

“You say Gant is too weak,” he said, his voice sounding thick to his own ears. “Or at least that he was. What kind of spells would be required to do the things you spoke of—restoring life to the dead, or simulating death? Could a conjurer do these things with blood spells? Or … or would it take something stronger?”

“Depends,” Janna said. “To fake a death and then wake a man. Yeah, that would be a blood spell. You could even maybe use an herb if it was powerful enough. Yew, maybe. Or linden. But to raise a man that was truly dead? That would take the death of someone or somethin’ else.”

Ethan had suspected as much. And, he realized, Janna was right in saying that a conjurer like Gant, whose abilities were limited, would be unable to cast such a spell. Any speller might choose to take a life in order to cast a spell, but that didn’t mean that he had the skill to master and use the power drawn from the life of his victim. A conjurer with limited skill could murder again and again to fuel his spells, and none of them would ever work.

Rickman had stopped chewing and was staring at the two of them. “You’re saying that the men who cast these spells might have … taken a life in order to work their witchery?”

“Aye,” Ethan said. “Unfortunately, it happens more often than you might think.”

The doctor swallowed, took a long pull of ale. “Have you—” Rickman shook his head. “Never mind. I would rather not know.” He drained his cup and placed it on the table. “We should be on our way, Mister Kaille. I want to find these men.”