Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (6 page)

“Kaille.”

He poked his head back in the tavern.

“You were the first person I thought of; other minds might work the same way. You watch yourself.”

Would she have given such a warning to someone she didn’t like, at least a little? “I will. Again, thank you, Janna.”

After leaving the Fat Spider, Ethan followed Orange Street back north as far as Essex Street, and turned east toward the harbor, making his way past the wharves and stillhouses west of Windmill Point. The sun was higher overhead, warming the air a little, but not enough to drive off the autumn chill. Hundreds of gulls circled over the shoreline, ghostly white against the deep blue sky, their cries echoing through the city streets. A line of cormorants, black as pitch, glided just above the surface of the water.

Ethan could see a few merchant ships on the harbor. Two or three white sails billowed in the distance, and several ships closer to port were already on sweeps. But the fourteen British naval vessels positioned near Castle William, the fortification on Castle Island at the south end of the harbor, dominated the waterways. Even at a distance, Ethan could see red-uniformed soldiers on their decks, and the black iron mouths of the ships’ cannons gaping in the gun ports. Merchant ships piloted by captains less bold than those who had passed the naval vessels on their way to port might already have sailed to Newport or one of the smaller ports in Newbury or Salem. If the Crown’s show of force was intended to choke off the flow of commerce into the city, it appeared to be having the desired effect.

Ethan considered himself a loyalist. He had little patience with those who rioted in the streets, destroying property as a sign of their dissatisfaction with British colonial rule. Boston had seen too much of this in recent years. Three summers before, when Parliament first announced its intent to impose a stamp duty on all official documents, a mob ransacked the residence of Lieutenant Governor Thomas Hutchinson, as well as the houses of several other Crown officials. And this past June, when customs officers seized a ship belonging to John Hancock and accused the merchant of smuggling, agitators in the city again took to the streets, this time threatening physical violence against Crown representatives.

Yet he knew as well that the king’s men were far from blameless. The seizure of Hancock’s ship had been a vast overreaction to the merchant’s failure to submit proper papers for a shipment of Madeira wine, and it had given Samuel Adams and his mischief-makers just the excuse they needed to riot. Throughout the summer, Governor Bernard had threatened—unnecessarily, to Ethan’s mind—to post British army troops throughout the city, and as tension between loyalists and some of Boston’s more outspoken Whigs rose, and rumors of the impending occupation spread, prominent men such as James Otis and Adams spoke with ever-increasing frequency of a looming confrontation.

As a loyal subject of His Majesty King George III, Ethan never had cause to fear any British soldier, at least not before this summer and fall. He had served in the British navy, fought in the Crimean War. He had more in common with the men on those ships than he did with the Adamses, Warrens, and Otises of the world. But he knew better than to think that the hundreds of soldiers waiting out on the harbor had come merely as a demonstration of the Crown’s resolve. Boston was on the verge of becoming an occupied city, and Ethan couldn’t help thinking that the landing of regulars at Boston’s waterfront would lead to problems far worse than those that had brought loyalists and Whigs to this point.

Nevertheless, the city bustled as it would on any day other than the Sabbath. Though it was early still, both Essex Street and Purchase Street, which followed the South End shoreline northward toward the South Battery, were choked with people and carriages. Wharfmen and sailors made their way from warehouse to warehouse looking for a day’s wage. Merchants in silk suits and peddlers in rags jostled one another, trying to find bargains before off-loaded goods reached the markets of Faneuil Hall.

Ethan scanned faces as he shouldered his way past people on the street, but he saw neither the bespectacled man nor his brawny friend. To his relief, he also saw no sign of Sephira or her toughs.

He limped on, his bad leg beginning to grow weary and sore. He couldn’t keep himself from glancing repeatedly at the warships. The lead ship appeared to be a fifth-rate frigate, probably carrying forty-four guns. A smaller frigate of perhaps thirty guns lay to the north of her. He saw as well a post-ship, and several sloops-of-war and armed schooners. It wasn’t a fleet that would have struck fear in the hearts of French naval captains, but it was more than enough to pacify this city and its harbor. All the ships had their sails struck; no doubt their captains were awaiting orders. With just a glance Ethan counted hundreds of men on the various vessels. And rumor had it that another wave of ships and soldiers was on its way to the city from Halifax. The occupation would begin soon enough, and it would be massive.

As he neared Long Wharf, which jutted out into the waters of the harbor more than a third of a mile, Ethan saw a group of men standing on the wharf, speaking among themselves, their gestures animated. All of them were well dressed in matching coats, breeches, and waistcoats—ditto suits, as they were known. Several of them wore tricorn hats and all wore powdered wigs. These were men of means. Still, Ethan might not have taken note of them had he not spotted a familiar face in their midst.

Geoffrey Brower, the husband of his sister Bett, and to hear her speak of him, a customs agent of some importance, stood among the men. He was taller and leaner than the others, with a high forehead and a supercilious expression on his lean face. Ethan didn’t recognize any of Geoffrey’s companions, but given how similarly all of them were dressed, he assumed that they were customs men as well. He stopped where he was and watched them.

Every few seconds as they spoke, the men looked out toward the British fleet, particularly those ships at its north end. Looking that way himself, Ethan noticed that a pinnace holding several British regulars in their bright red coats and white breeches was approaching one of the ships, a sloop-of-war. The sloop had its sails struck, as did the other vessels, but Ethan could see no one on its decks. Not a soul.

Several more regulars in another rowboat made their way toward the sloop from the northern end of the island. And not long after, a second pinnace from one of the larger ships closest to the city’s waterfront approached Long Wharf and the dock near where Geoffrey and his colleagues stood. The boat drew alongside the pier and two of the soldiers on board held her steady while Geoffrey and two other men stepped onto the vessel. Once the agents were settled, the oarsmen began to row the boat out into the harbor. Within a few minutes it became clear to Ethan that they too were headed toward the sloop.

Something had happened to the warship, something serious enough to worry the fleet’s commanders as well as Crown officials here in the city. Still watching the rowboats, and glancing now and then toward the sloop-of-war, Ethan started toward the wharf. Three of Geoffrey’s friends had remained behind, and he considered casting another concealment spell, like the one he had used the night before to follow Tanner, so that he could eavesdrop on their conversation.

He reached for his blade, only pausing long enough to look around and make certain he wasn’t being watched.

His caution might have saved his life.

Perhaps twenty yards ahead of him, partially hidden in a narrow alley, stood none other than the bespectacled man and his companion. They hadn’t yet noticed Ethan, although they would have had he spoken his spell. They were gazing out over the harbor, as he had been. Spectacles held a brass spyglass, which he raised now to his eye. It seemed to Ethan that he had it trained on the sloop.

Rather than halt again and thus draw attention to himself, Ethan kept his head down and walked past the men. But his pulse raced. Whatever had happened to the British sloop-of-war had drawn the attention of Sephira’s conjurer friend.

Or perhaps the man had done something to the ship. Something that demanded a spell powerful enough to wake all of Boston’s conjurers from their early-morning slumber.

Chapter

F
OUR

Ethan went only far enough to find a spot much like the one where Spectacles and his friend were hiding—a narrow alley between a pair of old wooden warehouses—and watched the men from there. They were in the Cornhill section of the city, less than a block from the Bunch of Grapes Tavern. The streets of Cornhill were always busy, in particular at midmorning, and few of those making their way to and from the wharves would take notice of a lone man standing at a corner, much less pause to wonder what he did there.

Every few minutes, the brute standing with Spectacles scanned the street, and each time he did, Ethan managed to duck back out of sight before the man saw him. But Spectacles kept his gaze fixed on the British ships. Ethan had the sense that he too was waiting for some sort of signal or command.

They remained on the street for the better part of an hour, until at last the two men appeared to give up on spotting whatever it was they were looking for. They left the alley in which they had been standing and headed south, back the way Ethan had come. He waited, allowing the men to walk some distance ahead of him before following, but he already had an idea of where they were headed. As he anticipated, they soon cut away from the shoreline, crossed Water Street, and took Joliffe’s Lane toward Bishop’s Alley. They were walking toward Summer Street, where Sephira Pryce lived.

Convinced that he would be able to find the men there, Ethan retreated to his home on Cooper’s Alley and cast a new concealment spell. He felt the thrum of power from the casting and knew that Spectacles would sense it also. But he hoped that the conjuring would be far enough away that it wouldn’t unduly alarm the man. As Ethan spoke the spell Uncle Reg appeared, his eyes bright and eager in the dim light of Ethan’s room.

“You can’t come along,” Ethan told the ghost. “Spectacles will see you, even if he can’t see me. I can’t take the risk.”

Uncle Reg shook his head.

“I’m sorry.
Dimitto te.
” I release you.

The ghost glowered at him, even as he faded from view.

Sheathing his knife once more, Ethan left the room and descended the stairs, taking each step with care. He couldn’t be seen, but he could still be heard, and he didn’t want to frighten Henry, the cooper who rented him his room.

Shelly waited for him at the base of the stairway leading from his room down to the alley behind Henry’s shop, her tail wagging. For some reason Ethan had never understood, dogs could see him even when he was concealed with a conjuring. He squatted down beside her, glancing around as he did to make certain that no one was watching.

“You have to stay here, Shelly,” he whispered, scratching her head. “Or else you’re likely to get me killed.”

She licked his hand, but when he stood once more and walked away, she remained by Henry’s cooperage.

Ethan followed Milk Street to Long Lane, stepping around people, placing his feet with care, and when possible using the rattle of passing carriages to mask his footsteps. Halfway along the lane Ethan cut between two houses and into d’Acosta’s Pasture, an open expanse of grazing land sparsely occupied by cows and horses. After crossing the southern corner of the field and slipping between another pair of yards, he reached Summer Street and Sephira’s house.

It was a large, white marble structure with a cobblestone path winding to the front door past tasteful well-kept gardens. It looked nothing like the house one might have expected Boston’s most notorious thieftaker to own. Then again, Sephira had never been one to conform to expectations.

Nigel and Nap stood out front watching the street. They couldn’t see Ethan, of course, but he took extra care to make certain that they wouldn’t notice his footsteps. After passing the front entryway, he crept along the north side of the house to the first window. From previous visits to Sephira’s home he felt reasonably sure that this window looked in on her sitting room, where he guessed she would be speaking to Spectacles.

Ethan knew better than to risk another listening spell. Still keeping to the shadows, he pressed himself against the marble exterior of the house and held his ear as close to the window as he dared. Closing his eyes, he tried to shut out all other sounds—the twitter of finches and sparrows, the whisper of the wind in the elms surrounding Sephira’s home, the occasional whinnying of a distant horse—and he listened. After a moment, he began to catch snatches of the conversation taking place within.

He thought that the first voice he heard was that of the bespectacled man. “… Might not have been on any of them. Your information might have been wrong.”

“It wasn’t.” Sephira’s voice. “I pay a good deal for the information that comes my way, and that money buys reliability as well as discretion. He’s out there. Or he’s already in the city, and you’ve failed.”

Silence. Ethan strained his ears, but heard nothing for several seconds.

“Come away from there,” Sephira said eventually. “We have matters to discuss and I want your undivided attention.”

“I told you, I felt a spell.”

“Yes, I remember,” she said, sounding impatient. “You also told me that it was some distance away. Back in Cornhill probably. And as I told you, that’s where Kaille lives. I’m sure he conjures all the time. It had nothing to do with us.”

“Well, what about the—?”

“That is enough, Afton,” Spectacles said, cutting off the other man. Ethan wondered if Afton was the brute he had seen with the bespectacled man.

“What is he talking about?” Sephira asked.

“It is not important.”

If Ethan needed confirmation that Spectacles hadn’t known Sephira for long, this was it. He would realize soon enough that she couldn’t be put off so easily.

“If you plan to remain in Boston for any length of time, Mariz, you’ll need to learn that I tell you what’s important, and what is not. Not the other way around.”