D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

“Mister Adams, perhaps?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Warren said, with obvious surprise.

“But you went to someone else?” Ethan asked, thinking of Sephira.

“Actually, no. I recovered them myself, from a patient who was less than pleased with services I had provided.”

“I believe, Doctor, that you might be in the wrong line of work.”

Warren’s grin flashed again, though it faded as he watched the sedan holding his patient-a boy of perhaps twelve years-pass by, followed by a man and woman Ethan assumed were the stricken lad’s parents.

“Smallpox?” Ethan asked, gazing after them.

“Aye.”

“In that case, I won’t keep you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor Warren.”

“And you, Mister Kaille.” He glanced down the road. “Avoid crowds if you can. And give any house bearing a red flag a wide berth.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He tipped his hat to the man, and they went their separate ways. It occurred to Ethan that if he was interested in robbing graves, and wanted to find corpses that hadn’t been dead for long, he would come to a city like Boston in the middle of the summer, when disease was prevalent. The bodies might be infected for a few days after the poor souls died, perhaps even for a week. But after that, the resurrectionists could begin their grim harvest.

He usually arrived at the Dowser later in the evening, after the dinner hour, when Kannice’s regular clientele crowded around tables and the bar. This early in the day, there were fewer patrons in the great room, and many of those present were dressed in red and white uniforms.

Over the past several years, Kannice had become ever more vocal in her opposition to the taxes and tariffs imposed on the colonies by Parliament and enforced by the Crown. The arrival of occupying troops, and their expectation that they could eat in publick houses without having to pay for their food, had convinced her that Britain could no longer lay claim to the loyalty of her American subjects.

There were perhaps twenty-five regulars in the tavern, all of them crowded around five tables in the center of the great room. They were speaking in loud voices, laughing lustily at one joke or another.

Kannice stood behind the bar, a dishcloth slung over her shoulder. The look in her bright blue eyes could have melted steel. Kelf hovered beside her, though whether because he feared for her safety or the safety of the soldiers Ethan couldn’t say. So intent was she on the regulars that she didn’t notice that Ethan had come in until he planted himself in front of her.

She started, but then a smile crossed her lips. “I didn’t see you,” she said.

“You had your mind on other things.”

Her pleasure at seeing him gave way to a scowl. “They’ve already spilled four ales,” she whispered. “It’s not enough that they take my food and drink without offering to pay so much as a penny, but then they slosh it about like it’s naught more than water. And who do you think gets to clean it up?”

“Kelf?” Ethan asked, feigning innocence.

The barkeep snorted. Kannice glared at them.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know,” Ethan said. “I’m sorry.”

“Where’s the rum-dell?” one of the soldiers called, holding an empty tankard over his head.

“Rum-dell am I now?” Kannice said through clenched teeth. She tried to push Kelf out of her way so that she could step out from behind the bar. Ethan thought it likely that she intended to shove the tankard into the soldier’s ear, or perhaps elsewhere.

“I’ll go,” Kelf said. “No sense gettin’ us shut down.”

He filled a tankard, pasted a smile on his face, and walked out into the great room. “Here ya go, sir,” he said, his voice pitched to carry. “Never been called a rum-dell before; I think I like it.”

The soldiers laughed uproariously. Kannice seethed.

“Kelf’s right, you know. They’re not worth getting angry over, or doing something you’ll regret.”

“Something stupid, you mean?”

Ethan didn’t reply, and a grin crept across her lovely face.

“Afraid to answer?” she asked.

“Very.”

She laughed. “What would you like to eat, Mister Kaille?”

“Whatever they’re having. What’s good enough for the king’s men is good enough for me.” He leaned forward and winked at her. “Just don’t spit in mine,” he whispered.

She laughed again and walked back into the kitchen, returning moments later with a bowl of fish chowder and a round of bread. Ethan fished in his pocket.

“Don’t you dare,” Kannice said, growling the words.

Despite her warning, he pulled out a half shilling. “You’re having to give away too much food tonight. Let me pay for this.”

She glowered at him, but when he didn’t shrink from her gaze, she took the coin. “Tonight,” she said. Her smile returned, deepened. “Speaking of tonight, will you be here?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

“I know. But I have a previous engagement with a ghost.”

She sobered in an instant. “Tell me.”

He glanced back at the soldiers.

“In here,” she said, gesturing toward the back rooms behind the bar.

Ethan walked around the bar and joined her in the kitchen, where a large pot of chowder simmered over a cooking fire. He related to her what he had seen at King’s Chapel and the other burying grounds, as well as what Darcy and Ruth Walters had wanted of him. The lone detail he omitted was the mutilation of the cadavers’ feet. She would have worried, and he remained so perplexed as to what it might mean that he wouldn’t have been able to ease her mind.

As it was, by the time he had finished, her forehead was creased and her lips pressed thin. “Where would you even begin to look for the people who did this?”

“That’s a fine question. If they’re conjurers, they’ll cast eventually, and I’ll feel their spell.”

Her expression hardened. “Didn’t you tell me that Sephira Pryce has a conjurer working for her now?”

“I’ve considered that,” Ethan said. “This doesn’t feel like something with which Sephira would involve herself. Too much effort, not enough profit.”

She started to say more, but Ethan stopped her with a raised hand. “I plan to speak with Mariz anyway. Even if he isn’t involved, he might have some ideas as to who is.”

“And you expect him to help you? Sephira’s man?” She laid the back of her hand on his brow. “You must have taken a fever.”

Ethan grinned.

“Come on. Your chowder is getting cold.” She took his hand and pulled him back out to the bar.

Ethan ate and sipped his ale. As he did, though, he thought about what he had said to Kannice. Speaking to Mariz was not as odd an idea as Kannice thought. If this actually was Sephira’s doing, she would be relying on the bespectacled man’s conjuring abilities. And if she had nothing to do with the grave desecrations, Mariz might well prove a valuable source of information.

A year before, Sephira’s man was grievously wounded in a confrontation with other conjurers. Drawn to the site of the encounter by the thrumming of the spells, Ethan found Mariz, healed him as best he could, and summoned Sephira’s other toughs so that they could take the man back to her estate. Mariz remained unconscious for days, and when at last he woke he named himself Ethan’s friend, without Sephira’s knowledge, and swore to come to Ethan’s aid should Ethan have need.

“I still work for Miss Pryce, and I will follow what orders she gives me,” the man said at the time. “But when I am not acting on her behalf, I am free to honor whatever friendships I choose. And like it or not, Kaille, you and I are now friends.”