A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (11 page)

“Good day, Kelf.”

“Kannice is at the market,” the barkeep said, running the words together. “She’ll be back soon enough. But in the meantime, you’ve been in demand.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a couple in here earlier, lookin’ for ya. I think they want to hire ya.”

Usually, Ethan limited himself to one client at a time, but since he had refused payment from the King’s Chapel congregation, he felt justified in taking on a second job.

“Did they say more than that?” Ethan asked.

“Aye, but they was talkin’ to Kannice, so you’ll have to wait for her. In the meantime, what can I get ya?”

Ethan ordered an ale—a real ale this time—and a plate of oysters. Kelf filled a tankard for him before retreating into the kitchen and emerging again a few minutes later carrying a plate that was piled high with oysters.

Ethan sipped his ale, allowing the Kent pale to wash away the lingering taste of Dunc’s swill. Then he set to work on the oysters. As he shucked and ate, he considered what he might do next to find those who had desecrated the graves. It was possible that Dunc would send word, that the stolen goods would wind up at the Crow’s Nest and Dunc’s antipathy toward grave robbing would lead him to keep his promise. But Ethan thought it unlikely.

It wasn’t Dunc he doubted—much to his own surprise—but rather the robbers themselves. Even without finding any trace of conjuring power in the burying grounds, he remained convinced that the robberies were tied in some way to spellers. Several of the graves had contained items that might have been worth something: hair combs, a cane with a brass tip and ivory handle; Abigail Rowan had been buried wearing a small brooch. Why would ordinary thieves work so hard to dig up graves but then leave behind these sellable items? And who, other than a conjurer intent on dark spellmaking, would mark every corpse?

But while he thought it possible that a spellmaker had robbed the graves, he couldn’t imagine who this person might be. He knew Janna wasn’t involved, and he doubted that Gavin Black, who lived near Murray’s Barracks, would be party to such horrors either. Gaspar Mariz, on the other hand, might very well have committed such a ghastly crime on Sephira’s behalf. Before long, Ethan would need to speak with him, although first he would have to figure out how to arrange a conversation without also involving Nigel, Nap, and Gordon.

“There you are!”

He turned. Kannice was crossing to the bar bearing two canvas sacks filled with fowl, vegetables, and fish. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could see corded muscle beneath the skin of her slender arms. She kissed him lightly on the lips and heaved the bags onto the bar.

“Kelf!” she called.

The barman emerged from the back.

“There’s flour and cream waiting at the market. It’s paid for, but I couldn’t carry it.”

“Course you couldn’t,” Kelf said. He glanced at Ethan and shook his head. “Wisp of a thing like her—I don’t know how she carries anythin’.” He lumbered to the door. “I’ll be back.”

Kannice carried one of the sacks into the kitchen.

“Do you need help?” Ethan asked.

“Don’t you start, too!” she called.

“All right.” He waited until she came back for the second sack. “Kelf mentioned that someone came in looking for me.”

“That’s right. A young couple, Darcy and Ruth Walters. Darcy said you knew his mother.”

Ethan felt an involuntary shudder run through his body. “Aye,” he whispered.

Kannice’s brow creased. “Are you all right?”

“What else did he say?” Ethan asked.

“Just that they needed your help.”

“I’m sure they do.” He drained his ale and headed for the door.

“Who are they? Who was his mother?”

“A conjurer,” Ethan said over his shoulder. “She died a fortnight ago.”

Chapter

S
IX

Patience Walters was a spellmaker of modest abilities who lived in New Boston until succumbing to pneumonia in mid-June. Ethan had gotten to know her only in the last year or two of her life, but he enjoyed her company. She was a diminutive woman with bright green eyes, a quick smile, and a soft, almost demure laugh. She liked to talk about conjuring—something Ethan didn’t get to do very often—and though she did not cast many spells in the last years of her life, she seemed to take great pleasure in asking Ethan questions about his spellmaking. He downplayed his own talent, often telling her that he knew of several spellers, including Janna, who could tell her far more about conjuring than he could, but each time she would wave off his protestations and ask him for another story.

Darcy had not inherited his mother’s abilities, but he and Ruth welcomed Ethan into their home, and often sat with him and Patience as they talked. Ruth had recently given birth to a son, Benjamin, whom they named for Darcy’s deceased father.

With all that he had seen this day, Ethan had little doubt as to why they wished to engage his services. Still, he was puzzled. Patience had been buried only a fortnight before in the Common Burying Ground, and Ethan had seen no disturbed graves there. He even convinced himself that because no one who had been involved in the old witch trials was buried there, the burying ground had been spared. He had attended Patience’s funeral, and so knew exactly where on the grounds she had been buried. Yet today he had been too distracted to think of seeking out her grave in particular. She had died so recently; if any graves at the burying ground had been robbed, hers would have been one of them. He berated himself for his carelessness.

The Walters house was a small brick structure on Lynde Street, near the West Meeting House, and only a short walk from the Dowser. Ethan covered the distance in as little time as his bad leg would allow, and knocked on the door rather more forcefully than necessary.

He had to wait but a moment before the door opened.

“Ethan!” Darcy said. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

“I came as quickly as I could,” he said.

Darcy waved him into the house, and shut the door behind him. He was taller than his mother, although not by much. In other ways—the vivid green eyes, the oval face, the easy, open manner—he resembled her a good deal. He wore his dark hair in a plait and was dressed plainly in a white linen shirt and brown breeches.

Ruth sat by the window holding Benjamin in her arms, her long, wheaten hair reaching nearly to the floor, her round face pale and a bit pinched. Ethan hoped that she was well.

“Good day, Ruth.”

“Good day, Ethan,” she said, managing a smile that brought a hint of color to her cheeks.

“Kannice told me you were engaged in another inquiry,” Darcy said. “I’m sorry to take you away from that.”

“I’m not sure you are taking me away from it. Indeed, I think I know just why you sought me out.”

Darcy frowned. “You do?”

“Aye. I fear so.” Ethan hesitated. Darcy and Ruth might not know yet of the mutilations; he would want to present those tidings to them as gently as possible. Once more he wondered how Patience’s grave could have been disturbed; he had walked every path in the burying ground, and though he had failed to look for her headstone in particular, he had not noticed any disturbed graves. Perhaps whoever was responsible for the robberies was as brazen as he was cruel, and had struck in the middle of the day, in the hours since Ethan’s visit to the burying ground. This was the only explanation that made any sense to him. “Did someone come to tell you what had happened,” he asked, “or did you go out to the burying ground yourselves?”

Darcy regarded him the way he might a babbling lunatic. “The burying ground? Ethan, what are you talking about?”

“Your mother, of course, and the desecration of her grave.”

“What?” Darcy and Ruth said simultaneously, her voice so sharp that Benjamin began to fuss.

“Something’s been done to her grave?” Darcy asked.

“Isn’t that why you came to the Dowser?”

Darcy shook his head. “No. But if something’s happened—”

“Perhaps it hasn’t,” Ethan said. He should have been relieved, but instead he felt his apprehension increase. “Forgive me. Tell me what it is you want me to do.”

Darcy and Ruth shared a look. She had paled again.

“It
is
about Mother,” Darcy said. “She’s been dead and buried for two weeks now. But … but her shade is still here.”

Ethan gave an involuntary shiver. “Her shade?”

“Aye. In her bedroom.”

“And has it been here since the day of her death?”

Darcy glanced at Ruth again.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I first noticed her three days ago. I thought … I was afraid that I had imagined it, so it wasn’t until yesterday that I told Darcy.”

“Ruth is awake late at night more than I am. Because of Benjamin. And she wanders the house.”

Ethan nodded. He had encountered ghosts too many times to count. He saw Reg most every day. Shades did not usually frighten him. But this … A trickle of sweat ran down his temple. “Have you tried to speak with her? Do you have any idea why she’s come back?”

“None. My father wasn’t a speller so I don’t know … Is this normal?”

“No, it’s not. Your mother would have communed with a spectral guide who allowed her to access power for her spells.”

“Aye. She said it was her great-grandfather. But that was different, wasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so. Can I see her room?” Ethan asked.

“Of course,” Darcy said. “This way.”

He started to lead Ethan to the back of the house, but before they left the common room, Ruth said, “She won’t be there.”

Ethan and Darcy turned. Ethan shivered a second time. The woman sounded terrified.

“She comes at night. I’ve … I’ve looked for her at other times, but she’s never there. Only at night.”

“Still, we should check,” Darcy said, his tone so gentle it made Ethan’s heart ache. “If you need us, call out.”

He led Ethan back toward Patience’s room. Once they were out of the common room, he whispered, “This has been a terrible ordeal for Ruth. She was afraid she was going mad, and even now that I’ve seen Mother—or rather, her ghost—she’s still frightened. I think she fears for Ben.”

The small bedroom at the back of the house was sparsely furnished. The bed in the far corner had been covered with a colorful quilt, and a simple chest of drawers stood nearer to the door, its top bare save for a single white candle in a pewter holder.

“Her personal effects?”

“She never had much. There’s some clothing left in the drawers. Her wedding ring is in a small box in my wardrobe. There wasn’t much else.”

“You said you had seen her, too. What can you tell me about her appearance?”

Darcy knitted his brow. “What do you want to know?”

“Did she look … whole?”

The young man shrugged, then nodded. “Aye.”

“Was she solid or more like her spectral guide?”

“More like him,” Darcy said. “Not solid at all. And she glowed like he used to.”

“With the same color?”

“No,” Darcy said, his tone giving the impression that he had just realized this for the first time. “Great-Grandfather was a bright yellow, quite a lovely color really. Mother looked more like a sickly green.” He looked stricken. “I should have noticed that earlier. Do you think it means something?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan told him. “You also said that you tried to speak with her. What happened?”

“Very little. She didn’t answer, but I didn’t expect she would.”

“Did she know you were there? Did she seem to know where she was?”

Darcy weighed this for several seconds, chewing his lip and staring down at the floor. “She looked at us,” he said. “I think she could tell we were here. And she definitely knew where she was. She walked around her bed rather than through it or over it. But she didn’t seem well.”

“Explain. Please.”

“She was agitated, frightened even.” He raised his gaze to Ethan’s. “I believe she understands she shouldn’t be here, but I don’t think she knows how to leave.”

Ethan rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I can do, Darcy, but I’ll help you in any way I can. I was fond of your mother. This is a cruel fate for one as kind as she.”

“Thank you. We haven’t a lot of money, but we can pay you something.”

“We can talk about that another time. As I said, I’m not even sure I can help.”

“Again, you have our thanks.”

“Can I come back here tonight?” Ethan asked. “I want to see her myself.”

“I think that having you here tonight would come as a great relief to both Ruth and me.”

Ethan offered what he hoped would be a reassuring smile. “Good. I’ll be back sometime after dark.”

He turned, intending to leave Patience’s bedroom.

“Just a moment, Ethan,” Darcy said, lowering his voice. “You thought I had called you here for another reason. You thought something had been done to Mother’s grave. Should I go out to the burying ground?”

“No,” Ethan said. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Can you tell me what’s happened?”

“A small number of graves have been desecrated, probably by resurrectionists.” Ethan didn’t dare say more.

“Dear Lord! Do you think that’s why Mother—?”

“No. I was in the Common Burying Ground today. I searched it thoroughly and didn’t notice any damage to your mother’s grave. I doubt that it’s been violated in the hours since.”

Darcy let out a long breath. “Thank God. Ruth has been through too much already. I don’t think she could endure another shock, particularly one so gruesome. To be honest, I’m not certain that I could, either.”

They walked back out to the common room, where Darcy informed Ruth of Ethan’s intent to return that evening. Ruth still looked pale, but her face brightened at these tidings, and she thanked Ethan several times before he managed to excuse himself and leave.

Only when he was no longer with the young couple did he give in to the trepidation that had gripped him upon hearing of Patience’s ghost. As a thieftaker, he didn’t believe in coincidence; as a conjurer he understood that even seemingly disparate events and phenomena could be related to one another. He refused to believe the grave robberies had nothing to do with the appearance of Patience Walters’s ghost.