Thieftaker (3 page)

He had his share of enemies in the city, and none of them would hesitate to use his secret against him if they thought themselves safe from his retribution. But fear of conjuring ran deep, even among the wealthy, even among the likes of Sephira Pryce.

Corbett’s coins jingled in Ethan’s pocket, bringing a smile. Combined with the seven and a half shillings Corbett had paid upon hiring him last week, it was money enough to last him a while. He wouldn’t need to work again for at least a month, perhaps longer. Maybe this would be a good time for him to stay out of sight; let talk of his … talents die out. Particularly if there was another conjurer in the city casting spells as potent as the one he had just sensed. And in the meantime, he could spend a few days with Kannice.

He was headed to the Dowsing Rod now. She would want to know that he had found Folter and managed to avoid getting himself killed in the process.

Ethan strode through the heart of the South End, passing by the brick edifice of the Third Church, its steeple looming dark and tall against the moonlit sky. The smell of smoke grew stronger as he walked, and he could hear shouts coming from different parts of the city—the area just north of Cornhill as well as the North End. He wondered if there were two mobs loose in the streets, or if there might be even more. As he neared the First Church and the Town House, he saw the glow of the fire he had been smelling.

He slowed. Ezra Corbett wasn’t the only client who might look askance at Ethan’s involvement in any mischief, and Ethan had no interest in attracting the notice of officials of the Crown. He had already endured enough British justice to last a lifetime.

A sound behind him made him spin; his knife was in his hand almost before he realized that he had reached for it. Two shadows emerged from behind a dark house and trotted up to him. Shelly and Pitch: a pair of dogs who lived in the streets, and spent most of their time scrounging for food at Henry’s door. Ethan lowered his blade, laughing at himself. But his heart continued to hammer as he sheathed his weapon and squatted down to greet the dogs. They licked his hand, tails wagging.

Shelly had first shown up at the cooperage several years before, not long after Ethan took a room there. She was a large dog with a short coat, mottled gray and white. She had a splash of tan on her snout, and pale gray-blue eyes. Henry had named her Shells because he said her coloring reminded him of the shells that washed up on the harbor shore. But before long he and Ethan were both calling her Shelly.

Pitch, who showed up a few months later, was a bit smaller, and entirely black, save for his deep brown eyes. His coat was long and silky. Ethan often wondered if he had once belonged to a wealthy family; dogs as pretty as Pitch generally didn’t live in the streets.

“No food,” he told them, as they continued to lick his hand and sniff his clothes. “Sorry.”

He scratched them both behind their ears. Judging from their response, this made up for the fact that he had nothing to feed them.

Standing again, he backtracked to School Street, and followed Treamount northward, the two dogs flanking him. He hoped to keep his distance from those abroad in the streets. He soon realized, though, that rather than avoiding the mob, he was walking directly toward it. The closer he got to Queen Street, the louder the noise grew. He could hear raucous laughter and shouted curses, the shattering of glass and the splintering of wood. As he crossed the lane and gazed eastward, he saw men tossing broken furniture and bundles of parchment from the window of a stately home directly across the street from the courthouse and prison. The irony of it nearly made him laugh out loud.

One man stood in the middle of the lane, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and what looked to be a table leg in the other. He spotted Ethan and shouted, “Hey, you!” The man sounded so merry, one might have thought that he was celebrating the coming of a new year rather than the sacking of someone’s home. “Care t’ join us?” the man asked. “Th’re’s plen’y t’ go ’roun’!”

Ethan waved a hand and shook his head without breaking stride.

“Wha’samatter?” the man called after him, his voice hardening. “Don’ like wha’ we’re doin’? King’s man, eh? Well, damn ya t’ hell!”

Ethan walked on, allowing the man to shout at his back. But he spoke a spell under his breath. “
Veni ad me.
” Come to me.

The air around him hummed, and the ghost of the old man appeared at his shoulder again and fell in stride beside him. The drunkard continued to shout after him, but he didn’t follow. Shelly and Pitch broke off, whining slightly as they headed back to the South End. This wasn’t the first time Ethan had seen the dogs flee at the first appearance of the ghost. He regretted scaring them off, but he felt better knowing that he could summon his power instantly if he had to. Too much was happening this evening. The spell he had felt, these rioters; he had grown cautious over the years, and if ever there was a night that called for care, this seemed to be it.

Ethan felt the ghost watching him, but he kept his eyes trained on the street ahead. He wished he knew more about this glowing figure who materialized at his side whenever he conjured. The man was tall and lean, with a trim beard and mustache, and close-cropped hair that looked like it would have been white had it not been for the shade’s reddish glow. He was always dressed the same way: in a coat of mail and an ornate tabard bearing the leopards of the ancient kings, like those worn by medieval knights. Ethan guessed that he had lived hundreds of years ago, and he assumed that the old man was one of his mother’s forebears. All Ethan knew for certain was that every time he spoke the words of a spell, the ghost materialized to blend his power with whatever source Ethan had chosen to complete his conjuring.

The ghost couldn’t speak; at least, he had never said anything to Ethan, although his bright eyes and bushy eyebrows could be quite expressive. Over the years, Ethan had taken to calling him Uncle Reginald—Reg, for short—after one of his mother’s older brothers who had a prickly personality.

At last, as he continued to walk up Treamount, Ethan glanced at the wraith, who was still eyeing him with that familiar vexed expression.

“Something on your mind?” Ethan asked.

By way of answer, the ghost pointedly glanced back toward Queen Street and then nodded toward the knife on Ethan’s belt.

“Yes, I could have spoken a spell when I needed you. But the castings are faster when you’re already here.” He grinned. “Besides, you’re such pleasant company.”

The specter glowered at him.

They reached Hanover Street, and Ethan heard more commotion coming from down the lane. Two weeks ago the agitators had concentrated their ire on Oliver; tonight, they were casting a wider net. Best to get off the streets.

When at last he reached the Dowsing Rod, Ethan turned to Uncle Reg again. “
Dimittas,
” he said within his mind, not bothering to speak the words aloud. I release you.

The ghost touched a glowing hand to his own brow and then began to fade from view. Ethan gazed back toward the center of the city, where smoke continued to billow into the night. Shouts echoed through the streets, punctuated occasionally by strident cheers. If anything, there was more commotion now than there had been earlier. He could guess who was behind these riots, and he knew that only trouble could come of them.

Chapter

T
HREE

The Dowsing Rod was owned and run by Kannice Lester, who had become the sole owner of the tavern several years ago, after her husband Rafe died. Kannice served decent ales at a reasonable price, but she was known throughout Boston for her stews, which most people, Ethan included, thought were the best in the city.

From without, the Dowser looked clean and reputable. Kannice wouldn’t have had it any other way. She made it clear to all her guests—even Ethan—that she wouldn’t tolerate gambling or whoring or any other sort of mischief within the walls of her inn.

“Leave it in the streets,” she always told them. “Or you won’t be welcome here again.”

Ethan had yet to meet anyone brave or foolish enough to defy her.

Stepping into the tavern, Ethan expected to be greeted by the usual din of laughter and shouted conversations. But the Dowser was half empty, unusual even for a Monday night, and those who stood at the bar or sat at tables arrayed around the hearth spoke in hushed voices. The air within was heavy with the smell of candles and pipe smoke, and the mouthwatering aroma of one of Kannice’s famous fish stews. Though the crowd was small, Ethan saw several familiar faces, including Devren Jervis—Diver—an old friend who occasionally helped Ethan with his work.

Of all the people Ethan knew who frequented the Dowser, Diver came closest to getting himself banned from the tavern. He did so with some frequency, and, as Kannice had pointed out on more than one occasion, if it wasn’t for Ethan’s friendship with the man, Diver would have been tossed out into the street long ago. He sat alone at a table near the back of the tavern. Catching Ethan’s eye, he raised his tankard and gave it a little wave.

Ethan had to laugh. The evening mist and a few stubborn midges still clung to his waistcoat, and already Diver was asking him to buy his next ale. Ethan walked to the bar, where a few men stood drinking ale and eating oysters.

“Evenin’, Ethan,” said Kelf Fingarin, the hulking barman. “Wha’ kin I getchya?” Actually, he said it so quickly that it came out as a single word: WhakinIgetchya? Ethan understood only because he had been in this tavern a thousand times. Newcomers weren’t so lucky, and in addition to being the size of a Dutch merchant ship, Kelf also had a quick temper. He was certain that his words were as clear as an autumn morning in New England.

“What’s Diver drinking?” Ethan asked.

“Th’ cheap stuff, as usual.”

Ethan wrinkled his nose. “You have any of the pale left?”

“From Kent, you mean?”

Ethan nodded.

“I might have a bit.”

Ethan tossed two shillings onto the bar. “I’ll have two. And keep them coming.”

Kelf grinned and grabbed two tankards. “Someone jest got paid.”

“Where’s Kannice?” Ethan asked.

Kelf was already filling the first tankard. He jerked his head toward the entrance to the kitchen. “’N back, gettin’ more stew. I’ll tell ’er ya’re here.” He placed the first ale on the bar, began to fill the second.

“There’s another mob out in the streets,” Ethan said.

“Don’ need t’ tell me,” Kelf said. “Look ’round. Half them who’re supposed t’ be here are with th’ rabble, an’ th’ rest are too scared t’ leave their homes.”

“You know why?”

The barman shrugged and put the second ale on the bar next to the first. “Stamp nonsense again.”

Ethan took the ales. “My thanks, Kelf.”

He wove his way past tables and chairs, nodding and smiling to the few people who met his glance and offered a greeting. When he reached Diver’s table, he placed one ale in front of his friend and sat.

“I’m grateful, Ethan,” Diver said. “I’ll get the next one.”

“We’re paid through a few rounds,” Ethan said. “You can pay next time.”

Diver raised his ale. “Well, then!”

Ethan tapped his friend’s tankard with his own and they both drank, Diver draining most of his.

Diver wiped his mouth on his sleeve and peered down into his drink. “The good stuff, eh?”

“I got paid,” Ethan said. “Enjoy it.”

Diver sipped from his mug again. But he said nothing more and soon began to drum his fingers nervously on the table.

“You all right?” Ethan asked.

“Fine!” Diver said. “Just … I’m fine.”

A cheer went up from the bar; looking past Ethan, Diver smiled. Ethan turned in time to see Kelf and an attractive, auburn-haired woman emerge from the kitchen carrying a large tureen of what had to be more fish stew. Kannice Lester was willowy and stood at least a full head shorter than the barman, but her arms were corded from years of lifting pots of stew, of keeping her tavern clean, of making sure there was wood for the hearth and for the stove in her beloved kitchen. At a word to Kelf, she and the barman hoisted the tureen onto the bar in one fluid motion. She began to ladle the soup into empty bowls as patrons converged on her from all around the room. After a few moments she spotted Ethan, and a smile lit her face. She whispered something to Kelf, who immediately returned to the kitchen. Kannice continued to serve out the stew.

“So who paid you?” Diver asked Ethan, leaning close.

Ethan tore his gaze from Kannice. “Corbett,” he said. “His wife’s got her jewels back and I’ve got my coin.”

Diver’s eyebrows went up. “Already?”

“Don’t look so impressed. It was Daniel.”

“Daniel? He swore to me that he’d given up thieving.”

“Well, he’s as much a liar as he is an idiot.” Ethan narrowed his eyes. “Did you have business with him?”

“Of course not,” Diver said, suddenly interested in the tankard in front of him. “I know Daniel’s trouble. I stay away from him.” He glanced up at Ethan, though only for an instant. “Is he … did you…?”

“I didn’t give him up to Greenleaf,” Ethan said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “And I didn’t kill him, either, though Sephira wouldn’t have been so forgiving. I told him to leave Boston, so if he owes you money, I’d suggest you collect in the next day.”

“I told you, I have no dealings with him.” Diver said the words forcefully enough, but he wouldn’t look Ethan in the eye.

Diver was nearly ten years younger than Ethan, and had long looked up to him as he might an older brother. They had known each other for more than twenty years, since Ethan first arrived in Boston and Diver was just a boy working the wharves. The younger man was clever, but he had been orphaned as a small boy and raised by an uncle who never liked him. Early on he had turned his wits to activities that might well have landed a less fortunate man in prison or on a boat to a British penal colony. He put to sea as a hand on merchant ships for a time, and about five years ago, around the time Ethan was released from his servitude in the West Indies, Diver came back to Boston to work the wharves once more. In the years since, he had also helped Ethan track down the occasional thief. He actually seemed to have a knack for such work, though Ethan often wondered if this might not be because of Diver’s own shady dealings and his connections with Boston’s less virtuous citizens.