A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (17 page)

“You’ve been conjuring,” Black said, keeping his voice low. “Just now, I mean.”

“Aye,” Ethan said. “A warding. Sephira’s men are looking for me, and one of them used a finding spell. It’s only a matter of time before they get here.”

Black pressed his lips together and gave a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t meet Ethan’s gaze.

“I cast fairly often, Gavin. You know this. Why would it trouble you today?”

“Your spells didn’t bother me at all,” the old man said. “It’s just—” He broke off, shaking his head again and muttering something under his breath. “It matters not. I’m sorry to have kept you.” He turned to leave.

Ethan put a hand on his arm. “Gavin, wait. Tell me what’s happened.”

Black looked around them and exhaled heavily. “Do your spells still work, Ethan?”

Ethan felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “The finding spell cast by Sephira’s man worked. I know it did. I have to hope that my warding did as well. Yours…?”

“They don’t do a thing. None of them. I don’t know if I’m getting too old, or if I’m doing them wrong, but they don’t work at all.”

“I thought you didn’t cast anymore.”

“I do on occasion. To light a cooking fire, or heal a wound. Sometimes I just do it to see if I still can.” A wistful smile touched the old man’s lips. “I miss it sometimes.” He held up his hand. He had cut his thumb just below the knuckle. “I tried to heal this last night, but I couldn’t. When that spell didn’t work, I tried to do other things. And—” His voice had started to rise and he paused now and licked his lips. He leaned in closer to Ethan, and when next he spoke it was in a whisper once more. “And I can’t conjure anymore.”

“It’s not just you. Nor is it because you’re getting too old. I cast a spell last night that didn’t work, at least not the first time. And … another conjurer I know mentioned that the same had happened to him.”

Gavin closed his eyes and let out another breath. “Thank you, Ethan. That comes as a great relief.” Despite the words, concern still furrowed his brow. “Do you know what’s causing this?”

Ethan shook his head. “I don’t, but I’m trying to find out. Perhaps you can help me in that regard.” He steered the old man to the edge of the lane and described for him as quickly as he could what he had seen at the burying grounds the day before. “Does any of that mean something to you? Do you know why grave robbers would take hands and skulls?”

“Other than to sell them, you mean?”

“Aye,” Ethan said.

“There are conjurers in the islands of the Caribbean, who claim that they can bring back the dead using parts of the body.”

It seemed to Ethan that a cloud passed in front of the sun, though the light didn’t change and a warm wind still blew in off the harbor.

“Did they need anything else to do this, other than the body parts?”

“Aye,” Black said. “Now, keep in mind, this was just what they told me. I never saw them do it, nor did I wish to. But they claimed that they also needed something of this world: a possession, something that could be used to bring them back.”

Of course. “A piece of clothing perhaps?” Ethan asked, his voice flat.

“Aye, that would work.”

“Kaille,” he heard from behind him. Nigel’s voice.

He cast a quick glance at Sephira’s men. Mariz stood next to Yellow-hair, looking like no more than a child beside the man. He had his knife in hand. Nigel held no weapon, but Ethan was certain that he had a pistol at the ready. Nap and Gordon had positioned themselves behind the other two.

Ethan nodded to them. “I’ll come with you,” he said to Nigel. “Just allow me another minute to speak with my friend.”

“And why should I do that?” Nigel asked, with a smug smile.

“Because he’s a conjurer, too,” Ethan said, not bothering to raise his voice. “And because even with Mariz standing there beside you, the two of us can snap your neck if we choose to.”

Nigel’s face fell. Ethan turned back to Gavin before the tough could say more.

“Was there more to the conjurings? Specific words that had to be included in the incantation, or maybe some sort of symbol?”

Black shook his head, his gaze flicking past Ethan toward Nigel. “Honestly, Ethan, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t apologize, Gavin. I’m grateful to you. And I’ll do what I can to help with your problem.”

The old man appeared more frightened by the moment. Ethan assumed that Nigel had produced his firearm.

“Do you need me to … do you need help?” he asked.

Ethan grinned. “I’ll be fine.” He turned to face Sephira’s toughs. Nigel did indeed have his pistol in hand. “I’m ready when you are, gentlemen. We shouldn’t keep herself waiting any longer.”

Chapter

N
INE

They marched him through the streets of the South End as they would a prisoner, Gordon and Nap in front of him, Nigel and Mariz behind. Most people ignored them as they went past, although a few—perhaps those who recognized Sephira’s men—halted and stared. None of the toughs spoke a word, not even when Ethan chanced a quick look back at Nigel and said, “It’s not like her to hold a grudge for this long, especially over something as insignificant as dueling pistols.”

Yellow-hair stared past him, his expression unreadable.

“I was paid all of three pounds. Has business gotten so bad for her?”

Still nothing.

Ethan held his tongue as they covered the rest of the distance to Sephira’s mansion on Summer Street.

The Pryce house was an impressive structure built of white marble and fronted by an expansive lawn and carefully tended gardens. He had long considered it a far nicer home than she deserved; then again, if he had lived here and she in the shabby room he rented, he still would have thought her quarters too good for her.

Mariz and Nigel led him up a low set of steps onto the front veranda. There they stopped, just in front of a broad oak door.

“Your knife,” Mariz said, holding out a slender hand.

Ethan had expected this; it was a precaution Sephira always took with him, despite knowing that he could still draw blood by biting the inside of his cheek, or scratching his arm, as he once had done in her house. Even if it didn’t make her any safer, she seemed to like lording over him whatever advantages she could gain. He removed the blade from its sheath and handed it to Mariz.

“And your mullein.”

Ethan frowned, but handed over his pouch containing the herb.

Mariz faced Nigel and nodded once. Yellow-hair led them through the door.

Within, the house was decorated with tapestries and other works of art; Ethan had been here several times before and so knew what to expect. But he still found it jarring to be reminded that Sephira, whom he thought of as little more than a glorified brigand, possessed such refined taste.

They crossed through the small front foyer, and through a vast common room, to a dining room that was nearly as spacious as the parlor. Sephira sat at the far end of a long table, a goblet of Madeira and a plate of cheeses and fruits set before her. She was reading a newspaper when they walked in; she looked up from it, her sharp gaze finding Ethan straightaway before shifting to Nigel.

The subtle lift of her eyebrow was all the warning Ethan had.

Nigel swung around, leading with his fist, which caught Ethan high on his cheek, just below the eye. He staggered back—into Gordon’s grasp, as it turned out. The big man pinned Ethan’s arms to his side, rendering him defenseless. Ethan lashed out with a kick, which Nigel deftly avoided. Yellow-hair dug a fist into Ethan’s side, making him gasp. He hit Ethan again, full in the jaw. After that, Ethan was too addled to keep track of every blow Nigel and the others landed.

It seemed that they hit him several times more before Sephira finally said, “Enough.”

They broke off their assault, and Gordon released him. Ethan collapsed to the floor, coughing, gasping for breath. Blood ran from his nose and his split lip, choking him. He spat a mouthful onto the floor, hoping he managed to stain Sephira’s rug.

He heard the click of a boot on wood, but only realized when she started speaking that Sephira had gotten up from the table and was standing over him.

“You’ve gone too far this time, Ethan. I’m tempted to kill you where you lie and have them dump your body on the Common, or in the mudflats. You should know better, but of course, I’m continually amazed by your foolishness.”

He could barely reply. “All this trouble … for a pair of … of dueling pistols?”

For several seconds, she said nothing. Then, “You just don’t learn, do you?”

He felt himself lifted again, knew the beating was about to resume.

“Sephira, wait!”

“Are you going to stop this nonsense?” she asked, her tone mild.

“I truly don’t know what this is about. I thought it was the pistols. I was wrong. But I’m at a loss as to what else it could be.”

She stared at him, shaking her head. “You brought this on yourself,” she said. To Nigel, she said, “Kill him.”

Ignis ex cruore evocatus!
he said within his mind. Fire, conjured from blood!

The blood vanished from his face, and Nigel’s coat burst into flames.

Gordon and the others rushed to smother the fire. Ethan stood his ground, making no attempt to flee. Mariz remained beside him.

The toughs extinguished the flames in mere seconds. Nigel scrambled to his feet, his clothes still smoking, and pressed the barrel of his pistol against Ethan’s chest so forcefully that Ethan stumbled back a step.

“You bloody bastard!”

Ethan ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on Sephira. “I don’t know what this is about,” he said. “If you’re really going to let him kill me, the least you can do is first tell me why.”

“You insist on playing these games with me.”

“This is not a game, Sephira; this is my life. And I swear to you on the life of Kannice Lester, I don’t know what this is about.”

“It’s about me killin’ you!” Nigel said with a snarl. “Finally, after all these years!”

But he didn’t pull the trigger. Rather, he looked back at Sephira, awaiting her orders. And it seemed that Ethan’s oath reached her.

“Not yet,” she said.

Nigel sulked like an overgrown boy denied his favorite toy. He lowered the pistol. A second later, seemingly as an afterthought, he smacked Ethan’s head with an open hand. Ethan reeled; he would have fallen had Mariz not held him up.

“That’s for ruinin’ my coat,” Yellow-hair growled.

“You don’t know why I brought you here?” Sephira asked.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you. I thought you were still angry with me for giving you Salter’s old shoes instead of the dueling pistols.”

“I am still angry with you for that,” she said. “But you’re here for a far more serious transgression.”

“And I’m telling you that I can’t think of anything else I might have done.”

Even as he said the words, he heard in his mind the echo of his conversation with Adams and the others. Were the two encounters related?

“You mean to tell me that you haven’t been to the warehouses of Alexander Rowan or Sebastian Wise?”

“Rowan?” Ethan said. “You’re working for Alexander Rowan?”

“So, you do know him?”

“Yes. I was at his house last night.”

Sephira’s smile could have frozen the harbor solid. “I know you were. Why do you think you’re here now?”

“I didn’t know that you were working for him.”

“So if you had, you wouldn’t have taken his money?” she asked, her voice spiraling upward. “You wouldn’t have interfered in my business? You wouldn’t have made him think that I had—?” She clamped her mouth shut, and looked at Nigel. Ethan expected to hear her repeat the order to kill him.

“He didn’t give me any money—not a penny—and I’m not working for him,” Ethan said, keeping his voice level. “I’m working for the congregation of King’s Chapel, of which he is a member. I’m inquiring into a series of grave desecrations and robberies that include the burial site of his wife.”

“Grave robberies,” she said, sounding doubtful.

“That’s right. Resurrectionists, most likely, since they took the head and right hand of each corpse.”

She returned to her seat at the table and took a long drink of wine. When she spoke again, she sounded more composed.

“And what about his warehouse? When did you go there?”

“I haven’t been. Not once.”

“You see, Ethan, that’s where you disappoint me. You take so much care in crafting a wild story about resurrectionists, and then you tell a lie that no one could possibly believe.”

“You’ve known me for a long time, Sephira. And while you might think me a fool, you must know that I’m not so stupid as to lie to you in your house, surrounded by your men, with a pistol aimed at my head. So maybe you should tell me what’s happened. If this involves Mister Rowan, it’s possible that we can help each other.” He chanced a grin, though it hurt his jaw and lip. “You can always kill me later.”

She looked away, chuckling. “Sit,” she said, gesturing at the chair to her right. “Get him a glass of wine,” she said to Mariz.

Ethan sat, and Mariz placed a goblet of Madeira in front of him. He took a long drink, managing to dribble just a bit of it over his swollen lip. Sephira frowned at him.

“Can’t you heal that?” she asked.

“I will later. Tell me what this is about.”

“I’ve been hired by Rowan, Wise, and a few of their friends, to protect their warehouses. I have men there now.”

“Their warehouses,” Ethan said, more to himself than to her. “Why would…?” It dawned on him. “They’re not honoring the non-importation agreements, are they?”

“No,” she said. “They’re not. And they have been threatened repeatedly. Last night, not long before you arrived at the Rowan house, the warehouses of Rowan and Wise were attacked. Most of their goods were destroyed.”

Ethan had heard of similar actions being taken against other merchants who had Tory leanings. Many merchants in Boston, and throughout the rest of the American colonies, had expressed their dissatisfaction with Parliament’s policies by refusing to import goods from England. Many, but not all. And those who violated the non-importation agreements not only weakened the boycott of English goods, but also profited at the expense of those who honored it. They were among the most reviled men in the city. Even someone like Rowan, who was wealthy and otherwise well-respected, could not escape the wrath of Whig sympathizers.