A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (27 page)

Ethan nodded, still stung by her accusation. “We’ve had to apologize to each other a lot in the past few days.”

“I was thinkin’ that,” she said. “I’ll be more careful.”

“So will I.” He nodded toward her bowl. “How do you like your chowder?”

She picked up her spoon and tasted it. Her eyes widened. “That’s good,” she said. “A woman who looks like that and cooks like this? You should marry her before she comes to her senses and kicks you out.”

Ethan grinned, but then turned serious once more. “Did you know Nathaniel Ramsey?” he asked her.

“Which one?”

“Both, I suppose.”

She nodded, taking another spoonful of Kannice’s stew. “The father was a friend. I always liked him. He would come to see me when he put in to port. Sometimes he’d buy an ale or a meal. Sometimes he’d buy herbs from me. One time he brought me a great big shell he’d found in the islands.” Her smile this time was wistful. “Told me it was a piece of my home. I still have it. He was a good conjurer. Not the most powerful I ever met, but reliable.”

“What about the son?”

“I liked him, too, but I only met him a few times. The last time was right after his father died. He come to tell me that his papa used to say nice things about me. He didn’t stay long—seemed lost in a way, if you know what I mean. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Well,” Ethan said, “he’s back. And he’s the one who’s behind whatever is happening to our conjurings. He’s also responsible for the grave desecrations we talked about the last time I visited you at the Fat Spider.” He leaned in closer to her. “Last night, Kannice and I were talking about this. When we conjure, our ghosts give us access to the power between the realms of the living and the dead. There are shades all over Boston. The corpses Ramsey mutilated are now appearing as shades in their old homes. Could those ghosts be keeping us from casting our spells?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Might be they could keep our ghosts from that power you talked about. That’s the one way I can think they would do it.”

“Of course,” Ethan said. “That makes a good deal of sense.”

“But why would he do it?” she asked. “He needs to conjure, too, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s controlling the ghosts. Do you remember that symbol I showed you?”

“Of course I do. Carving runes into corpses isn’t anythin’ I’m likely to forget.”

“Right. I think those symbols allow Ramsey to bend the shades to his will. And I also think that the shades recognize Ramsey’s spectral guide, and allow him to do as he pleases. Ramsey’s spells work just the way they’re intended. He made that much clear to me last night.”

“Why is he so angry with you?”

Ethan recounted for Janna his encounter with the captain back in 1763. “I believe he’s been making inquiries about me ever since. He seems to know a lot about me.”

“Including what that maimed foot of yours looks like.”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head, and took a sip of wine. “You’re gonna need help before all of this is through. You know that.”

Ethan thought of Mariz. “Aye, I know it.”

“So you tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll be there.”

He reached over and patted her hand. “Thank you, Janna.”

She glared at him. “You’re humorin’ me. Don’t. I might be old, but I can conjure better than you, and better than Ramsey, too. You need me.”

“Before this is over, I may need every conjurer in Boston.”

“You intendin’ to kill him?” Janna asked.

Ethan faltered. “If I have to.”

“So you’re willin’ to spend those souls when the time comes.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The souls: those shades you been seein’.” When his expression didn’t change, she placed her spoon on the table. “Every time a conjurer summons the spirit of someone who’s dead, he puts that soul at risk. If the conjurer dies before releasin’ the spirit, the soul is lost forever. No heaven, if that’s what you believe. No spirit to summon another time. The soul’s just gone. If you kill Ramsey while he still controls those poor folk, you’ll be makin’ it so them souls are gone for good.”

“You’re sure of this?” Ethan asked.

Janna glowered.

“Of course you are. My apologies for asking.”

“If you want to save the souls, you have to get Ramsey to release them before you kill him. And that ain’t gonna be easy.”

Ethan rubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t thought that this matter with the captain could be any more difficult than it was. He’d been wrong. “No,” he said, “it’s not.”

“Like I told you, Kaille: You need me.”

“Aye, I do. And when the time comes to fight him, I’ll make certain that you’re there.”

“Good.” She picked up the spoon again. “Now go away. Let me eat this fine food, before I have to walk back home.”

“Aye, all right,” he said and stood.

“You used that sachet yet?” Janna asked, before he could walk away.

“No, not yet.”

“Don’t,” she said. “If your spells ain’t workin’ you can’t risk it. If you go in that house where the woman died of the pox, you won’t know if the spell worked or failed until it’s too late. You understand me?”

A chill ran through his body. “Aye. Thank you, Janna.”

He joined Kannice and Kelf at the bar.

“How long have you known her?” Kelf asked, the words a quick jumble.

“A long time,” Ethan said.

“I’ve heard folks say that she’s mad—think she’s a witch, and seems proud of it.”

Ethan merely nodded, taking care to avoid Kannice’s gaze. “I’ve heard that, too.”

“What will you do now?” Kannice asked him.

“I’m not sure. Until nightfall, I really can’t…” He trailed off. “Damn,” he whispered. “I have to go,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Kannice’s mouth twitched: an attempt at a smile. “I know better than to tell you to have a care, but I don’t like this business.”

“Neither do I. And I will.” He gave her hand a squeeze and returned to Janna’s table, squatting down beside the old woman’s chair so that he could look her in the eye. “Did you feel any spells last night or this morning?” he asked her, voice lowered again.

“Several last night and a couple this morning,” she said. “I assumed you were castin’, though the ones this morning came from your place, not from here.”

Ethan shook his head, inwardly cursing himself once more. “No,” he said. “They came from the waterfront. Thank you, Janna.”

Ethan left the tavern for the Common Burying Ground. What Janna had told him about the souls of the summoned dead made it more imperative than ever that he keep Ramsey from desecrating Patience’s grave. He thought about casting a finding spell to locate the captain, but he had little confidence that it would work. Upon reaching the burying ground he walked its perimeter once, before searching a section of the cemetery a good distance away from where Patience had been buried. After a few minutes he found what he sought: the grave of a woman who had died within the last few months—March, to be precise. He positioned himself by the grave, and pulled out his blade.

He didn’t like the idea of fooling Ramsey into disturbing the grave of an innocent, but as much as he feared for Patience’s soul, he also dreaded what might happen if the captain managed to add the shade of a conjurer to his army of ghosts. And he was convinced that Ramsey was abroad in the city, walking freely under the protection of a concealment spell, confident that any finding spell Ethan attempted would fail.

Ethan remained in the burying ground for the better part of an hour, wondering if he was wasting his time. At last, another thought came to him. He left the Common Burying Ground and walked the short distance to the Granary. This burying ground looked different in sunlight than it had the previous night, but he had little trouble locating once more the gravesite of Mrs. Tyler. And as he did, he thought he heard quick footfalls.

“Ramsey,” he said, his voice carrying over the breeze and rustle of leaves.

No response.

Ethan drew his knife once more. “Looking for another corpse?” he said. “Another shade for your collection?”

As sure as he had been that the captain was near, he was still surprised by the pulse of power, which came from but a few feet away.

Suddenly, Ramsey was there, the sun shining on his tanned face and dark, untamed hair.

“You’re all healed,” he said. “I suppose that means you have a bit of power left yet.”

“A bit,” Ethan said.

Ramsey strolled to where Ethan stood and looked down at the newly covered grave. “Was she a friend of yours? A conjurer, perhaps?” Before Ethan could answer, he shook his head. “Forgive me; I forgot. Your friend is in the Common Burying Ground. I’ve already been there.”

Ethan schooled his features.

“You were looking for me?” Ramsey asked.

“I thought we might speak a bit more. Perhaps we can find some accommodation that would allow you to get whatever it is you want, and allow me to offer some solace to the families being haunted by your shades.”

“There can be no accommodation.”

“But surely—”

“No! I warned you last night, Kaille. I owe you nothing now, and we both know that your spells aren’t reliable enough to fight me.” Ramsey grinned. “How many healing spells did it take you to repair that arm? Four? Five? You took a great and foolish risk coming here today. I suppose there’s something admirable in that, and I’m willing to forgive a moment of folly. But my…” His smile deepened. “My
patience
wears thin. I would suggest you leave.”

Ethan’s blade hand itched. The incantations for a thousand different attack spells, each more painful than the last, flashed through his mind. But as Ramsey well knew, he didn’t trust his conjuring enough to instigate a battle of conjurings. If any one of his castings failed, Ramsey would kill him.

The captain appeared to read the fury in his eyes, and also the uncertainty. He laughed. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? So many people spend their whole lives ignorant of the power we wield. They go about their affairs, seeking out a surgeon to mend their burns and broken bones, and striking flints to kindle a fire. And they think nothing of it. But we—those of us who are accustomed to using our spells to accomplish similar aims—we grow so dependent on those powers that when they fail us, we feel helpless. Just as you do now.”

“What I find ironic,” Ethan said, his hands trembling with rage, “is that you think I lack confidence in my spellmaking, and you see that as my greatest weakness right now. Whereas I
know
that yours is your confidence, your hubris. It will be your downfall in the end.”

“Maybe,” Ramsey said, sounding unfazed as he started away. “But I doubt very much that you’ll live long enough to see that end.”

Chapter

F
IFTEEN

Once Ramsey was gone, and Ethan was sure that the captain would not double back and follow him, he hurried to the Walters home. This was his fault. He had said too much to Ramsey the night before, and now the captain knew who Patience was and where she was buried. Ethan owed it to her, and to Darcy and Ruth, to do all he could to protect her from Ramsey’s power.

Darcy probably would not be at home—he often worked in the market at Faneuil Hall—but Ruth would be.

He was sweating and limping by the time he reached the small home, but he wasted no time approaching the door and knocking. Ruth opened the door. She held the babe in her arms, and her face looked even paler and more pinched than it had the last time Ethan saw her.

“Ethan,” she said, sounding surprised.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Ruth. But I need to see Patience again.”

“But she doesn’t come until nightfall.”

“I think I can summon her, and I believe I have the best chance of succeeding if I do it here.”

“What’s happened?” she asked, shifting the babe to her other arm.

“It’s nothing. Just a question I forgot to ask the other night.”

She nodded and stepped aside so that he could enter. Once he was inside she closed the door and sat in a rocking chair near a window. “I’ll wait out here,” she said.

“Of course.”

Before he could leave the small common room, she said, “You know, as frightened as I am of Mother’s shade, I’m more scared by far of not knowing what all this means and what might happen next.”

He exhaled, faced her again. “I apologize for being less than honest with you,” he said. “There is a man, a conjurer, who is using spells to control the shades of the recently dead. As far as I know, he has yet to control Patience. But I said something to him—something foolish—and now he knows of her, both that she died not long ago, and that she was a conjurer. I believe he means to control her, too. I wish to warn her, and to see if somehow we can thwart his plans.”

“How does he control them?”

“Ruth—”

“He mutilates the bodies. Doesn’t he?” Her eyes were so filled with fear and despair that it made his chest ache. “I overheard some of what you and Darcy discussed that day you came.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Ethan said. “I don’t know if I can prevent it, but this is my fault, and I have to try.”

“I don’t think Darcy would blame you, nor would Patience. But I understand.”

He held her gaze for another moment before making his way back to Patience’s bedroom. Once there, he called in Latin for Uncle Reg.

“I know you don’t like it when I summon the dead,” Ethan said. “But in this case I have to. You know why?”

Reg nodded.

Ethan pulled out the pouch of mullein and removed nine leaves, the same number he had used the year before when he cast similar spells. He hoped that the conjuring would work; he didn’t wish to waste so much of the herb. He also knew that this spell wouldn’t be quite the same as those he cast previously to summon conjurers. Usually he had to summon them from the realm of the dead. But Patience had yet to reach that realm. In theory, at least, this spell should have been easier.

“Are you ready?” Ethan asked.

Again, the ghost nodded.

“
Provoco te, Patience Walters, ex verbasco evocatum.
” I summon thee, Patience Walters, conjured from mullein.