A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (23 page)

He eyed the ghost again. The head and hand. The foot.

“His chest,” Ethan whispered. To Reg, he said, “Can you ask him to open his coat and shirt. I need to see his chest.”

Reg scowled. Ethan had noticed a year ago, when he had Reg summon the murdered conjurer to his room above Henry’s cooperage, and again in the past couple of days in dealing with the shades roaming Boston, that the old ghost was protective of the dead. Ethan thought he understood, but he also knew that Reg couldn’t refuse him in this matter or any other.

“You know why,” Ethan said. “I wouldn’t ask it otherwise.”

The old warrior’s expression softened and he faced Flagg once more. After a brief pause, the shade released his cane, which remained upright, and unbuttoned his coat, his waistcoat, and finally the shirt.

When at last he pulled the shirt open to expose his chest, Ethan could not help the oath that escaped him.

On the left side of his chest, over his heart, the symbol that had been carved into the skin of every male corpse mutilated in the burying grounds—the triangle with three straight lines cutting through it—blazed like sea-green fire. Here alone, the color of Ramsey’s power was not muted or diminished by the white glow of the shade. Rather it shone so brightly that it cast Ethan’s shadow in stark relief on the wall behind him.

He was more convinced than ever that the shade’s head and hand were what held it here in the mortal world. But he knew intuitively that this symbol controlled the spirit and turned him to Ramsey’s purpose, whatever that might be.

The door to the study opened, and Missus Flagg walked in.

“Mister Kaille I believe—” She halted at the sight of her husband’s shade, and drew a sharp breath. When he turned to her, his glowing chest still exposed, she cried out. “What have you done to him?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“I did nothing,” Ethan said. He stepped out from behind the desk, followed by Reg, whom he assumed the woman could not see.

“This was done to his corpse at the burying ground, and I believe that those who desecrated his grave intend to use that mark as a means of controlling his actions.”

“I don’t understand any of this. How could they control him? What you’re describing sounds like … like witchcraft.”

He didn’t correct her. “Aye, it does,” he said. “You can call it that, if you wish. The powers used by the men who did this are real—you can see that for yourself. This is why they have to be stopped.”

“Is he in pain?”

Ethan cast a quick look Reg’s way. The old ghost shook his head.

“I don’t believe he is, at least not as I think you mean it. But he does not wish to be here. He doesn’t want to scare you or your children. And that, I suppose, is a kind of pain.”

“You said before that there are other shades in Boston right now. Do they all bear that mark? Are they all trapped here, as Bertram is?”

He almost said yes before remembering Patience Walters, who was caught here as the others were, but who looked so different and who glowed with what he now realized was a blend of Ramsey’s aqua and the color of her own powers. Was it just Patience who looked this way, or were there others? And if so, had all of those who looked as Patience did been conjurers in life?

“To be honest, ma’am, I don’t yet understand all that’s happening. I know that there are other shades like this one—that the cadavers mutilated at the burying grounds seem to be manifesting themselves in their old homes, while looking as they do now in their graves. But there are other shades as well.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

The shade had buttoned up his clothing. It seemed odd to think of a ghost as being modest, but Bertram Flagg had retrieved his cane and now stood by the window, gazing out into the night. Ethan had the distinct feeling that he was ashamed to look his young wife in the eye.

“I think I should go,” he said. “Thank you, Missus Flagg.”

“Of course,” she said, eyeing her husband’s shade.

“I can let myself out, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan started to leave. “He won’t hurt you,” he said, facing her once more. “He can’t, and he wouldn’t want to.”

She looked at him, nodded.

Ethan left the house with Reg beside him, waiting to be released. As Ethan walked, he seethed. Ramsey was playing with forces he couldn’t have understood, and inflicting pain on people who had done nothing to deserve such cruelty.

“Do you have any idea how we can stop him?” Ethan asked.

Reg shook his head. Ethan could see that the ghost’s rage was a match for his own.

“Would killing Ramsey do it?”

Reg faltered, nodded.

Ethan frowned. “It would, but you don’t think I can kill him, do you? He’s gotten too strong.”

The ghost averted his bright gaze. Ethan didn’t need to see him nod to know that it was true.

“Damn.” He took a long breath. “Thank you for your help tonight,” he said to the ghost. “
Dimitto te.
” I release you.

He walked back to the Dowser, knowing that he should have gone to see the other shades that had been driven from their graves, but knowing as well that he couldn’t face them. Not tonight. He wasn’t sure he saw the point in going tomorrow night either. He knew what he would find: lost souls like Abigail Rowan and Bertram Flagg, families too ashamed or frightened to ask for help until it showed up at their door, and more evidence of Ramsey’s power and his own inability to match it.

By the time he reached the Dowser, his legs felt leaden and his shoulders drooped with exhaustion. For a panicked instant, he thought he might be growing ill, but he knew better. He had spent the day walking from one end of the city to the other, and he had little to show for his efforts. He wasn’t sick; he was dispirited. Before entering the tavern, he drew himself up and put on a brave face, lest he scare Kannice.

It was warm and loud in the great room, and even the aromas of chowder and bread couldn’t mask entirely the stink of sweat that clung to the workmen drawn in by Kannice’s cooking. Kannice and Kelf were so busy ladling out chowder that they didn’t notice that Ethan had come in until he stepped to the bar.

“I’ll get ya an ale in a minute, Ethan,” the barkeep said, his words stumbling over one another.

“There’s no hurry, Kelf.”

“Aye,” Kannice said. “And he probably won’t be staying long.” The words came out flat, and there was a troubled look in her eyes.

“What’s happened now?” he asked, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

“Another message has come for you,” she said. “I’ll get it in a moment.”

“If all my letters are going to come here, I might have to start paying you more for my ales and chowder.” He smiled.

Her expression didn’t change.

“Who’s it from, Kannice?” But already he had an inkling.

“Marielle Harper.”

Of course. Marielle Harper: his first love, and once his betrothed. Ethan loved Kannice, and she knew that. But she also remembered that for a long time, even after they began to share a bed, he had mourned the end of his engagement to Elli. Kannice was not the kind to be jealous, or to tolerate jealousy in her man. But to this day, she freely admitted being jealous of Elli.

For her part, Marielle remained standoffish toward Ethan. She didn’t approve of his spellmaking, and had yet to forgive him for concealing his powers from her during their brief betrothal. She had come to accept that her children, Holin and Clara, cared for him, and she grudgingly allowed him to be a small part of their lives. But she would not have sent a message to him, particularly here at Kannice’s tavern, had her need not been great.

He tried to conceal his impatience to see the missive, but Kannice knew him too well. She glanced his way, her expression darkening, and muttered, “I’ll get it now.”

She handed another bowl to Kelf before walking to the far end of the bar and retrieving a small, folded piece of parchment from a shelf below the polished wood top.

Walking back to Ethan, she handed it to him, saying not a word. He unfolded it and saw that in fact the missive was not written in Elli’s hand. He read, his blood turning colder with each line:

Mister Kaille,

I am writing to you on behalf of Marielle Harper, who bids me tell you that her son, Holin, has taken ill with the smallpox. The family has been removed from their home in the North End and is now staying at the Hospital in New Boston.

Louise Colson

“What does it say?” Kannice asked, watching him.

He handed the missive back to her.

She scanned it, and looked back up at him. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…” She winced, canting her head to the side. “Let me get you something to eat and then you can go to them.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry. I came back here to sit and rest.” He cupped her smooth cheek in his hand. “And to see you. But it seems that’s not going to be part of my evening, at least not yet.”

“You will come back later, though, won’t you?”

“I don’t know. It will be late, if I do.”

Kannice pulled a key from within her bodice and slipped the lanyard from which it hung over her head. “Here,” she said, holding it out to him. “You can let yourself in, even if I’ve gone to sleep. But I want to see you. I want to know you’re all right.”

He took the key, put the lanyard around his neck, and brushed a strand of hair off her brow. “Then I suppose I’ll see you later,” he said, and walked out once more into the humid night air.

It was a dark and desolate walk out to Pest House Point, as the strip of land on which sat the Province Hospital was known. The streets of New Boston were largely empty, and too many of the houses in this part of the city bore red flags, which rose and fell in the light breeze, rustling softly. Between Kannice’s tavern and the West Meeting House, he must have seen at least a half-dozen houses marked as quarantined. Once Ethan was past Chambers Street, walking west on Cambridge, there was little to see at all. Houses and gardens gave way to open leas, empty save for lowing cows.

Before long, the hospital loomed up ahead of him, homely and austere. A few of its windows shone dimly with inconstant candlelight, their glow reflected in the waters of the Charles River, just beyond the point. Others were dark. A murmur of voices reached him from within the building, along with the sound of crying. He wondered if Elli and Clara were among those he heard.

He approached the entrance to the hospital, but was stopped by a guard before he reached the door.

“You can’t go in there,” he said. “And you wouldn’t want to if you could.”

“Someone I know came here today. A boy. I want to speak with his mother.”

The man shook his head. “You can’t.”

“Not even if she were to stand by her window and I were to stay out here?”

“Do you know which room they’re in?”

Ethan fished in his pocket for a few pence. He held them up for the guard to see. “You could find out for me. The lad’s name is Holin Harper; his mother is Marielle Harper.”

The man’s gaze shifted between Ethan and the coins. At last he held out a hand. Ethan dropped the coins into his palm, taking care not to let his fingers so much as brush the man’s hand. The guard nodded and went inside.

Ethan waited on the path leading to the entrance, staring out across the river toward Cambridge. Mosquitos buzzed his ears, and whip-poor-wills called from over the Common. He glanced repeatedly at the door to the hospital, looking for the guard, but seeing no one. The minutes dragged on, and Ethan started to wonder if the guard had taken his coins and retreated to where Ethan couldn’t reach him.

He considered knocking on the hospital door, but chose to give the guard a few minutes more. It was a large building, and no doubt there were many unwell people within.

As Ethan gazed out across the water again, something caught his eye. A flash of light reflected on the river’s surface. He looked up at the sky and back at the building, but saw nothing. He assumed that he had imagined the light.

He decided that he had waited long enough and resolved to knock on the hospital door. But just as he turned away from the water, he saw it again: a glimmer of white light that danced across the surface of the river for a few seconds between reflections of candlelight, and then vanished. He turned to face the hospital, gazed back over his shoulder at the spot where the light had appeared.

And saw it again.

He looked up at the hospital and saw its source. A glowing ghostly form had appeared in one of the windows. It stood there for but a moment before moving out of sight.

Ethan knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised. People died at the hospital with some frequency. That shades should be appearing here, as well, made perfect sense. But he could only imagine how the hospital’s patients would respond to seeing spirits of the dead in their rooms.

“You there!” The guard stood in the doorway. “She’s around back, on the second floor.”

“Thank you.” Ethan walked to the door as the man watched him, wary and hopeful, as if unable to decide whether Ethan meant to give him more money or force his way inside.

Ethan stopped a few paces short of the door. “How long have the shades been here?”

The guard stared at him and licked his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aye, you do. I think that’s why some rooms are darkened and others aren’t. They could fill every room in the hospital, couldn’t they, but they’re forced to keep some of the rooms locked, because the ghosts show up every night after the sun goes down.”

“That’s…” The guard rubbed a hand over his mouth. “How’d you know?”

“I saw one in the window. And I’ve seen others all over the city. When did they first appear?”

“You can’t speak of this to anyone,” the guard said, taking a step toward him and lowering his voice. “If folks think the hospital is haunted, they won’t come here, and the epidemic will spread even more quickly.”

“I understand.”

The guard swallowed. “It’s been three nights now since we saw the first of them.”

“How many are there?”

“Six, right now. But we seem to get a new one every evening.”