Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (26 page)

“I see,” Adams said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. He turned back to the scene before them, his head moving ever so slightly with his palsy, concern creasing his brow.

“Brown and his friends are taking a great chance,” Ethan said. “You should get him out of there.”

“I should?” Adams said, rounding on him. “I have nothing to do with this. Contrary to what you and some others might choose to believe, James Otis and I are not responsible for every act of defiance by the citizens of Boston. Brown didn’t take direction from me or anyone else. He did this because he believes this occupation to be wrong, and because he doesn’t wish to give up his residence, however temporary it might be, in order to make a few of King George’s men more comfortable.”

Ethan said nothing, and Adams turned away once more, a touch of red shading his cheeks.

“Forgive me, Mister Kaille. These past few days have been difficult for all of us. I’m not insensitive to the danger. But Elisha has chosen his own path, and like you I can only watch to see what happens next.” He shrugged, a small, guarded gesture. “I don’t believe that Dalrymple and his men want this confrontation. They don’t wish to be humiliated, of course, and therein lies the true peril. But word is that General Gage has more men on the way—a few thousand more—and Dalrymple wouldn’t be so foolish as to resort to violence before his reinforcements arrive.”

“I hope you’re right.”

A wan smile flickered on the man’s face, although he didn’t look away from the building. “Yes, so do I.”

They both fell silent and watched. Much of the crowd had quieted as well, perhaps trying to hear what Brown and the British officer said to each other. Ethan could make out little of it, and none of what he heard was of much interest to him. Lieutenant Colonel Dalrymple wanted the building for his men and claimed authority to take it. Brown refused to acknowledge that authority and claimed to have no intention of leaving any time soon. The rest of what they said was of little importance.

After a few minutes of this, those who had come expecting to see something more dramatic began to lose interest. The silence that had descended on the mass of people gave way to murmured conversations, and to catcalls, most of them directed at the regulars and their leaders, but a few aimed at Brown and his friends.

Ethan scanned the crowd, more out of habit than any expectation that he might recognize someone. The one person he knew who might have been drawn to this sort of encounter was Diver, and Ethan had left him back on Pudding Street. But as he continued to survey the street, a lone figure drew his attention. At first he took little notice of the man, who was skulking at the edge of the crowd, his great shoulders hunched, his hands deep in his pockets.

Ethan soon realized that while the man appeared to be pacing, every pass brought him closer to the Manufactory. And he realized as well that he had seen the hulking frame and red hair before. Simon Gant.

“Your pardon, sir,” Ethan said, starting away from Adams and taking care to keep his gaze fixed on Gant.

“Yes, of course, Mister Kaille,” Adams called to him. “Good day to you.”

Ethan raised a hand in farewell, but all of his attention was on the big man. Skirting the densest part of the gathering, he made his way toward him. He moved with great care, and tried to conceal himself behind others. But he never let Gant out of his sight, and he reached for his knife as he walked. He hid the blade within his sleeve, so as not to alarm those around him, or cut anyone as he squeezed past.

Gant watched the building—Ethan wondered what interest he had in Elisha Brown and his confrontation with the regulars—and paid little attention to those around him. Ethan might have made it all the way to the man without being spotted had it not been for an older woman who objected to his attempts to step past her.

“You’ll just have to wait there, mister!” she said, glaring at him with small blue eyes. “We all want to see better, and I have a friend inside! So you just stand there with the rest of us and stop pushing me!”

Ethan raised his hands to indicate that he meant her no harm, and glanced toward Gant, to make certain that the man hadn’t seen him yet. He hadn’t.

But that hardly mattered, because in putting up his hands, he had forgotten that he held the knife. The old woman let out a little gasp, pointed a bony finger at Ethan and shouted “He has a knife!” in a shrill voice that must have carried halfway to Newport.

Everyone in the vicinity turned to look at him. So did Gant.

Ethan stared back at him and the big man’s eyes widened with recognition. He bolted down Treamount, shoving one woman to the ground and lowering his shoulder so that he barreled over an unsuspecting man. Ethan threaded his way through the mob, trying to be more gentle than Gant, but also doing his best not to let the thief get too far ahead of him. He jostled several people, earning glares and shouted insults, and at least one kick to the shin. But soon enough he was clear of the crowd and running after Gant.

The red-haired man turned down Queen Street. Ethan followed, pushing at his sleeve, and wondering what kind of spell he might use to slow Gant down. Gant cut off of Queen at the Court House, sprinting through the square that the old building shared with the prison and Old Meeting House. Ethan’s bad leg slowed him, and he could feel the man pulling away from him.

When he lost sight of Gant, he despaired, thinking that he had lost him. But he didn’t slow. Not yet. And as he reached Water Street, he saw Gant again.

The man had stopped. He stood with his arm braced against the brick side of a building, a pistol aimed at Ethan’s head.

Ethan stopped and threw himself to the side, taking cover between two shops and waiting for the report of Gant’s weapon. It never came. When Ethan finally leaned out to look again, Gant was gone. Swearing, Ethan leaped to his feet and started after him again, hoping that he had continued down Water Street.

The lane was empty save for two carriages that were ahead of him and heading in the same direction he was. No one could see him. He cut himself and said “
Locus magi ex cruore evocatus.
” Location of conjurer, conjured from blood. Reg fell in step beside him, seeming to run without effort, which was disconcerting since the ghost was at least four hundred years older than Ethan.

The conjuring flowed from him down into the street, and rebounded an instant later. Gant was ahead of him, still on Water Street. He would have felt Ethan’s finding spell, and should have warded himself against any conjured attack.

But Ethan felt no pulse of power. Maybe Gant didn’t wish to give Ethan any better sense of where he was. Or maybe he was content to rely on his gun and his strength.

On that thought, Ethan slowed, peering into every alley, expecting with each turn of his head to find himself staring down the steel gray barrel of the thief’s pistol.

“Where are you, Gant?” Ethan called, halting. “There’s no sense in hiding. I can find you with another spell. You know I can.”

He cut himself again and cast a second finding spell. Gant was ahead of him still, but close. It seemed that he had stopped running, too. By halting, Ethan had probably saved himself. He looked at Reg, who was staring ahead, his gaze avid, hawklike.

“Should I put him to sleep?” Ethan asked, his voice low.

The old ghost grinned at him.

Ethan laid the blade of his knife against his arm.

“Don’t do it.”

Gant stepped from the shadows, his pistol trained on Ethan’s chest.

“You won’t hit me from there,” Ethan said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Where are the pearls, Gant? Is that what you were looking for at the Manufactory?”

Gant cursed and took a step toward him, looking very much like a man who wanted to put a bullet through Ethan’s heart. “Leave it alone, Kaille! This is none o’ your concern!”

“Why are you using a gun, Gant?” Ethan asked. “You’re a conjurer, just like I am. We both know it.”

The man shook his head, looking for all his brawn like a little boy. “I don’t like that magicking stuff.” He held up the pistol, but quickly aimed it at Ethan again. “I prefer this. Now those pearls—”

“Are Sephira’s. And she’s not going to be happy when she finds out that you’re still in the city looking for them.”

“You leave Sephira t’ me.”

Ethan laughed. “Well, now I get it. You’re not stupid, you’re insane.”

“You watch what you say t’ me, Kaille,” Gant said, growling the warning. “You’re a pest, nothin’ more. But that don’t mean I won’t track you down and kill you.”

Ethan had heard enough. He cut a quick short gash in his forearm and as blood began to well from the wound he said, “
Ambure ex cruore
—”

It would have been a scalding spell, one that he had used in the past to great effect. But before he could get all the Latin out, he saw Gant’s pistol hand move fractionally.

He dove to his left, pushing off with his good leg, just as he saw white flame leap from the gun and heard the report echo off the buildings around him. The bullet whistled past, but Ethan landed awkwardly on his elbow and knee.

“
Ambure ex cruore evocatum!
” he said through gritted teeth, even as he heard Gant running again. Scald conjured from blood!

Gant howled with pain, but he was already a good distance away. Ethan knew that he would keep running. It would take him too long to reload his pistol, and he had made it clear that he didn’t wish to engage Ethan in a battle of spells.

Ethan sat up, flexed his elbow, and tried to straighten his leg. The elbow hurt, but seemed to be merely bruised. His knee was another matter. He didn’t think he had broken anything, but the kneepan felt as though it was in the wrong position, and every movement of his leg sent barbs of white-hot pain up his leg. He dragged himself out of the middle of the lane, and once he was on the safe side of the iron posts lining the street, cut himself once more, cursing the raw aching of his forearm.

Rubbing blood on his knee, he said, “
Remedium ex cruore evocatum.
” Healing, conjured from blood. The spell sang in the cobblestones and flowed from his hands into his leg. At first, as the kneepan shifted back into its normal position, the pain worsened. For an instant Ethan thought he might pass out, and he had to bite back the bile rising in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, and concentrated on his conjuring, doing his best to keep the flow of power steady. After some time, the agony passed, and the pain in his leg began to subside. He cut himself once more, and repeated the spell.

When he could bend his leg without grinding his teeth in agony, he climbed to his feet and began to limp back home. He thought about trying another finding spell, just to make certain that Gant hadn’t decided to come back and try to shoot him again. But his arm hurt, and he was weary from the spells he had cast. He wanted only to go home and sleep.

He should have known better than to think that was even possible. When Ethan turned onto Cooper’s Alley, he spotted Yellow-hair standing by the door to Henry’s shop. He held a pistol in his hand. When had everyone started carrying firearms? Seeing Ethan, he grinned.

Ethan had stopped, and now he grasped his knife and started to back away. All concerns about his raw forearm had fled his mind. He didn’t think he could run far, but with a spell he might be able to escape. Nigel seemed to read his thoughts.

“You don’t want to do that,” the big man said with a shake of his head.

“Why not?”

Nigel indicated Henry’s shop with the barrel of his pistol. “She’s in there, waitin’ for you.”

Henry.

“If she’s hurt him, if she’s so much as disturbed a hair on his head, I’ll kill her. And I’ll kill you, too.”

The man’s grin returned. “Get inside.”

Ethan knew he had no choice. He walked to the door and reached for the handle.

“Hold on,” Nigel said, walking toward him, his hand outstretched. “Give me your knife.”

Ethan cut his arm. “Try to take it from me,” he said.

Yellow-hair stopped in midstride. Ethan opened the shop door and stepped inside.

Henry was seated by his workbench, grinning broadly, the gap in his teeth making him look like a small child. Sephira sat next to him, a disarming smile on her flawless, deceitful face. Nap stood near the door.

“Ethan!” Sephira said as he walked in. Her gaze flicked to the cut on his arm, and her smile tightened. “How nice to see you. I was just telling your charming friend here that you and I have been rivals—friendly rivals, of course—for near to eight years now. I can’t believe so much time has gone by.”

“Are you all right, Henry?” Ethan asked, though upon reflection he realized that he had never seen the cooper look happier. Sephira was famous and beautiful and she had come to his shop. Henry had no idea of how much danger he was in, and probably wouldn’t have believed it if Ethan had tried to tell him.

“I’m fine.” He looked at the bleeding cut on Ethan’s arm and his face fell. “What happened to your arm?”

“It’s nothing.”

Henry seemed more than happy to accept this. “Mith Prythe—” His cheeks colored and he cast a sheepish glance her way. “I mean Thephira,” he went on, his lisp even more pronounced than usual. “She knows a guy—in France no less—who might want my barrels for his wine!”

Ethan looked at Sephira, who returned his gaze steadily, without any sign that she felt ashamed for lying to the old man. “That’s very exciting.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to France. But if I can’t go, at least my barrels can.”

“That’s right,” Ethan said. “Listen, Henry. Sephira and I have some business to discuss. So we’re going to let you get back to work now, all right?”

“There’s no need for that.” Sephira purred the words. “We can talk about it right here. And I’m sure we’re not disturbing Henry. Are we?” She flashed a dazzling smile.

Henry just shook his head. Ethan glanced over at Nap, who had turned away to hide the smirk on his face.

“All right,” he said, looking at Sephira again. “What are you doing here?”

“Nigel mentioned that he saw you a short time ago,” Sephira said. “And that you were somewhere you didn’t belong. I wanted to impress upon you how important it is that you not go there—or anywhere like it—again.”