Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (40 page)

“You look like you took a beating,” Greenleaf said, sounding far too pleased. “All this for ten pounds. Are you sure it’s worth it?”

Ethan took one last sip of wine, stood, and left the room without bothering to answer. Geoffrey stood at the door talking to Dalrymple. They both turned at Ethan’s approach.

“Where is it we’re going, Mister Kaille?” the colonel asked.

“Hull Street,” Ethan said. “That’s where Osborne and his daughters held me earlier today.”

Dalrymple’s brow furrowed. “Osborne. Why do I know that name?”

“He was on the
Graystone
, sir,” Ethan said. “A member of the Twenty-ninth Regiment.”

“I thought Gant was the only man who deserted in time.”

Geoffrey and Ethan shared a quick look.

“Apparently Osborne got away, too,” Ethan said.

“Yes, all right,” Dalrymple said, sounding impatient. “Let’s be on our way, then.”

The colonel had a dozen men with him, and as it turned out the sheriff had brought two of his ruffians as well, both of whom carried torches. No doubt every man there would have been shocked to learn that if Hester and Molly Osborne decided to fight them, a contingent of men twice as large wouldn’t be enough to overpower them. But Ethan kept this to himself.

They set out northward toward Hull Street, Ethan walking with Geoffrey, the sheriff, and Dalrymple. The soldiers and Greenleaf’s men followed. It was a cold, still night and clouds still blanketed the sky. The streets were mostly empty, but those people they did encounter gave the company a wide berth.

They walked at a brisk pace and soon reached the coppersmith’s shop. Resisting an urge to draw his knife and push up his sleeve, Ethan led the men around to the grassy clearing behind the shop. Seeing the shack, his heart sank. The window was dark.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s here, Kaille,” the sheriff said, a smug grin on his face.

Ethan didn’t answer, but he held out a hand to one of Greenleaf’s men. “Give me your torch.”

The man glanced at the sheriff, who hesitated before nodding.

Ethan walked to the shack and pulled the door open. The room remained much as he had left it. Osborne lay in the center of the floor, drying blood pooling beneath his wounded arm, his eyes still wide, his mouth still hanging open.

Greenleaf joined him in the doorway. “That’s Osborne?”

“Aye,” Ethan said.

“And he killed Gant?”

“His daughters did. But they did so because he made them, because they were terrified of him.”

“And who killed him?”

“They did.”

Greenleaf glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “Are you sure of that?”

“I was there when they did it. If they hadn’t, I’d be dead.”

The sheriff twisted his mouth. “Remind me to thank them,” he said, the words dripping with irony. “What now? Where else could they be?”

“They live on Wood Lane. Perhaps they’ve gone back there.”

“This place isn’t theirs?”

“No,” Ethan said. He descended the steps and trudged through the trampled grass. “This was Simon Gant’s house,” he said over his shoulder.

Ethan led the men back through the streets of the North End, to the wheelwright’s shop at fourteen Wood Lane. They went around to the side of the building and Ethan looked up the stairs. To his relief, the small window of the Osborne sisters’ room glowed with candlelight.

“This way,” he said, starting up the stairs. This time he did pull out his knife, but he kept it out of sight. He knew better than to think that he could conjure without drawing attention to himself and his spellmaking abilities. But after seeing what these women could do with their conjuring powers, he refused to meet them without a blade in hand.

Dalrymple, Greenleaf, and Brower followed him up the stairs. The others remained on the street.

Reaching the door, Ethan knocked once. When no one answered, he tried the door handle. The door swung open, and Ethan swore at the sight and stench that greeted him.

The two women dangled from the rafters of the room, nooses at their necks, chairs overturned beneath their feet, their dresses soiled where their bladders and bowels had released.

“Good Lord!” Geoffrey said, breathing the words.

Hester stared straight ahead, her mouth open much as her father’s had been. But Molly’s eyes were closed, and she appeared almost to be smiling. In the short time Ethan had known her he had never seen her look more at peace.

He stepped into the room, his throat tight. There were cushions everywhere; a half-completed pillow sat on the floor by one of the beds along with several spools of thread.

On the table in the center of the room, he found a piece of parchment and, beside it, a pen and an inkwell. He picked up the note and looked at the others.

“What does it say?” the colonel asked.

“‘We’re sorry.’”

“That’s all?” Greenleaf said.

Ethan held the note out to him.

The sheriff didn’t bother to reach for it. “Well, that’s very convenient for you, isn’t it?” But Ethan could tell that the man’s heart wasn’t in the accusation.

“He was with me at my house for some time before you arrived, Sheriff,” Geoffrey said.

“Aye,” Ethan said. “And before that I brought Derrey Jervis to the Dowsing Rod. He had been with me at the shack on Hull Street. He was wounded there.”

Dalrymple crossed to where Ethan stood and took the note from him. He examined it briefly before turning to Greenleaf. “Sheriff, do you honestly believe that Kaille had a hand in the deaths of these women? It looks a good deal like suicide to me.”

For just a second Ethan thought that the sheriff might try to blame him for everything. But the man’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “I agree,” he said. “They killed themselves. As to the rest…” He shrugged. “I suppose their note is proof enough of their guilt.”

He walked out of the room, making no effort to hide his disappointment. Ethan glanced at the colonel, who raised an eyebrow.

“He doesn’t like you very much.”

“No, sir,” Ethan said. “There are few people in positions of power in this city who do.”

Dalrymple grinned. Ethan hadn’t seen him smile before; it made him look ten years younger.

“You seem proud of that,” the colonel said.

“Not proud exactly. But I have gotten used to it.”

The colonel looked up again at the corpses of the two women, his grin turning to a grimace. “Did they really kill every man on the
Graystone
?” he asked.

Ethan considered this. He could still hear Osborne bullying them both with one breath and with the next assuring them that the army had done the actual killing. And he could hear as well what Hester had said.
He lied.

“Yes,” Ethan said at last. “They killed them. They were trying to help their father, and did far more damage than they ever thought possible.”

“You sound like you almost feel sorry for them,” Dalrymple said.

“I do. If you had met their father, you would, too.”

Chapter

T
WENTY
-
FOUR

With the colonel convinced of the guilt of the Osborne women, and Greenleaf resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to blame Ethan for any of what had transpired in the past week, Ethan was free to leave Wood Lane.

He made his way back to the Dowsing Rod as quickly as he could. Kannice must have been watching for him, because she met him at the door with assurances that Diver was all right.

“I gave him a room upstairs,” she said. “He’s resting. And Doctor Rickman is waiting for you at a table in back.”

“Good,” he said, exhaling the word. He put his arms around her and held her for a long time.

“Is it over?” she asked at length.

“Almost,” Ethan said. “The worst of it is.”

“I’m glad. Go find the doctor. I’ll get Kelf to bring you something.”

Ethan found Rickman sitting alone near the back of the great room. The surgeon regarded him with genuine alarm and was on his feet before Ethan reached the table.

“You look like you’ve been through a war.”

“Close to it,” Ethan said.

“I know that you can heal your own wounds if you have to,” he said, dropping his voice. “But at least let me see to the burns and cuts.”

The truth was, too many people had seen his injuries for him to heal them with spells, and so he welcomed Rickman’s ministrations. “I’d be grateful, Doctor,” he said, lowering himself into a chair. “But first tell me about Diver.”

Rickman shrugged. “There’s not much to tell,” he said, still whispering. “The wound is closed, and it appears to have been healed internally, as well as externally. He’s breathing easily, his pulse is steady. I wouldn’t call it strong yet, but if there was lingering damage to his heart I’d know it.”

“The people who healed him never got the bullet out. There wasn’t time.”

Rickman blinked, but kept silent as Kelf came to the table and set a cup of ale, some bread, and a bowl of chowder in front of Ethan.

“My thanks, Kelf.”

“Anythin’ for you, Doctor?” the barkeep asked.

Rickman shook his head. Once Kelf had gone, he leaned toward Ethan. “I assumed that you had healed him.”

“No.”

“I’d like to speak to the people who did.”

“That isn’t possible,” Ethan said.

The doctor seemed to hear the finality of this. He nodded, his expression grave. “I see.”

“The bullet, Doctor?”

“It shouldn’t prevent a complete recovery,” Rickman told him. “I don’t think it’s still in his heart—I can’t imagine that he’d be doing as well as he is if that were the case. Which means it’s probably lodged in the muscles or flesh surrounding his heart, nearer to his back, I would assume. It might cause him some discomfort, or it might not. But I doubt it poses any real danger to him.”

Ethan closed his eyes, knowing a moment of blessed relief. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he reached for his ale and nearly drained the tankard.

“The people who healed him saved his life,” Rickman said. “You understand that.”

“Yes, I do. They were also the people who killed the men aboard the
Graystone.
”

Rickman didn’t appear to know how to respond to that. He stared at his hands for a long time. After several moments, he looked up at Ethan and said, “Let’s see to that burn, shall we?”

For the next hour or so, Rickman swabbed and bandaged the burns on Ethan’s neck and arm, cleaned the cuts on his head, and probed his side for broken ribs. By the time he finished, Ethan felt marginally better. He promised himself, though, that once the doctor was gone and he was alone with Kannice, he would use spells on the burns. They hurt far more than his other injuries, and as long as they were bandaged no one would ever know that he had healed himself.

Rickman left not long after. He needed to return to the
Launceston
, but he promised Ethan that he would check on Diver again in the next day or two.

Ethan sipped a second ale by himself for a short while, but when Kannice came by to ask if he planned to wait up for her, he shook his head.

“I’m about to fall asleep right here,” he said.

“Go to bed,” she said, kissing him gently on the lips. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come up.”

“All right. What room is Diver in?”

“First one on the right.”

“Thank you, Kannice.” He climbed to his feet, and waded through the crowd to the stairs.

At the top of the stairway he let himself into Diver’s room, trying not to make a sound. A single candle burned atop a bureau by the door, and a chair had been set beside the bed. Diver lay beneath a pair of woolen blankets, looking pale and very young. Ethan walked to the bed and laid a hand on his friend’s brow. It felt warm, though not fevered.

“I thought I’d gotten you killed,” Ethan murmured.

He watched Diver sleep for a few moments before letting himself out of the chamber and going to Kannice’s room.

He slept like a dead man—he didn’t notice when Kannice came to bed, or when she got up and dressed the next morning—and only woke when she returned to the room to tell him that a soldier was waiting for him down in the tavern. He rolled out of bed, stiff and sore, wincing with every movement, and he donned the last set of clean clothes he had put aside in Kannice’s wardrobe. If his next job was anything like this one, he would have to remember to buy himself more shirts and bring half of them over here.

The soldier snapped to attention as Ethan came down the stairs.

“I’m Ethan Kaille,” he said to the man.

“Yes, sir. I’m here to escort you to the lieutenant governor.”

This Ethan had expected. “Lead the way,” he said.

Ethan took it as a good sign that Hutchinson had sent one man for him, rather than a detachment. But he couldn’t deny that with every step that took him closer to the Town House, his trepidation grew.

Upon arriving at the Town House, he didn’t have to wait long before being ushered into Hutchinson’s chambers.

The lieutenant governor eyed him as he walked in, the look on his face so grim that Ethan wondered if the man had hoped he would fail, so that he could rid himself of Boston’s conjurers.

He still can,
said a small voice in the back of his mind.

“It seems one day was more than enough time for you, Mister Kaille.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“You were hurt, I see.”

“Not badly, sir.”

Hutchinson’s smile was perfunctory and cold. “Yes, well, you have our gratitude,” he said, sounding none too grateful. He tossed a leather pouch onto the desk. It landed with the clink of coins. “Mister Brower tells me you were promised ten pounds.”

Ethan picked up the pouch and placed it in his coat pocket. “Is there anything else, Your Honor?”

“Yes. Be careful how you use that … that witchery of yours. I’ll go to my grave believing that it’s an abomination, and I know that I am not alone in my belief. We’ll be watching you and your kind, and we won’t look kindly on any association you might have with Samuel Adams and James Otis.”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, and left. He should have been angry; Kannice would have been livid on his behalf. But with all that conjurings had wrought in the past several days, he could not bring himself to blame the lieutenant governor for fearing his spellmaking abilities.