D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

Ethan scanned faces as he shouldered his way past people on the street, but he saw neither the bespectacled man nor his brawny friend. To his relief, he also saw no sign of Sephira or her toughs.

He limped on, his bad leg beginning to grow weary and sore. He couldn’t keep himself from glancing repeatedly at the warships. The lead ship appeared to be a fifth-rate frigate, probably carrying forty-four guns. A smaller frigate of perhaps thirty guns lay to the north of her. He saw as well a post-ship, and several sloops-of-war and armed schooners. It wasn’t a fleet that would have struck fear in the hearts of French naval captains, but it was more than enough to pacify this city and its harbor. All the ships had their sails struck; no doubt their captains were awaiting orders. With just a glance Ethan counted hundreds of men on the various vessels. And rumor had it that another wave of ships and soldiers was on its way to the city from Halifax. The occupation would begin soon enough, and it would be massive.

As he neared Long Wharf, which jutted out into the waters of the harbor more than a third of a mile, Ethan saw a group of men standing on the wharf, speaking among themselves, their gestures animated. All of them were well dressed in matching coats, breeches, and waistcoats-ditto suits, as they were known. Several of them wore tricorn hats and all wore powdered wigs. These were men of means. Still, Ethan might not have taken note of them had he not spotted a familiar face in their midst.

Geoffrey Brower, the husband of his sister Bett, and to hear her speak of him, a customs agent of some importance, stood among the men. He was taller and leaner than the others, with a high forehead and a supercilious expression on his lean face. Ethan didn’t recognize any of Geoffrey’s companions, but given how similarly all of them were dressed, he assumed that they were customs men as well. He stopped where he was and watched them.

Every few seconds as they spoke, the men looked out toward the British fleet, particularly those ships at its north end. Looking that way himself, Ethan noticed that a pinnace holding several British regulars in their bright red coats and white breeches was approaching one of the ships, a sloop-of-war. The sloop had its sails struck, as did the other vessels, but Ethan could see no one on its decks. Not a soul.

Several more regulars in another rowboat made their way toward the sloop from the northern end of the island. And not long after, a second pinnace from one of the larger ships closest to the city’s waterfront approached Long Wharf and the dock near where Geoffrey and his colleagues stood. The boat drew alongside the pier and two of the soldiers on board held her steady while Geoffrey and two other men stepped onto the vessel. Once the agents were settled, the oarsmen began to row the boat out into the harbor. Within a few minutes it became clear to Ethan that they too were headed toward the sloop.

Something had happened to the warship, something serious enough to worry the fleet’s commanders as well as Crown officials here in the city. Still watching the rowboats, and glancing now and then toward the sloop-of-war, Ethan started toward the wharf. Three of Geoffrey’s friends had remained behind, and he considered casting another concealment spell, like the one he had used the night before to follow Tanner, so that he could eavesdrop on their conversation.

He reached for his blade, only pausing long enough to look around and make certain he wasn’t being watched.

His caution might have saved his life.

Perhaps twenty yards ahead of him, partially hidden in a narrow alley, stood none other than the bespectacled man and his companion. They hadn’t yet noticed Ethan, although they would have had he spoken his spell. They were gazing out over the harbor, as he had been. Spectacles held a brass spyglass, which he raised now to his eye. It seemed to Ethan that he had it trained on the sloop.

Rather than halt again and thus draw attention to himself, Ethan kept his head down and walked past the men. But his pulse raced. Whatever had happened to the British sloop-of-war had drawn the attention of Sephira’s conjurer friend.

Or perhaps the man had done something to the ship. Something that demanded a spell powerful enough to wake all of Boston’s conjurers from their early-morning slumber.

Ethan went only far enough to find a spot much like the one where Spectacles and his friend were hiding-a narrow alley between a pair of old wooden warehouses-and watched the men from there. They were in the Cornhill section of the city, less than a block from the Bunch of Grapes Tavern. The streets of Cornhill were always busy, in particular at midmorning, and few of those making their way to and from the wharves would take notice of a lone man standing at a corner, much less pause to wonder what he did there.

Every few minutes, the brute standing with Spectacles scanned the street, and each time he did, Ethan managed to duck back out of sight before the man saw him. But Spectacles kept his gaze fixed on the British ships. Ethan had the sense that he too was waiting for some sort of signal or command.

They remained on the street for the better part of an hour, until at last the two men appeared to give up on spotting whatever it was they were looking for. They left the alley in which they had been standing and headed south, back the way Ethan had come. He waited, allowing the men to walk some distance ahead of him before following, but he already had an idea of where they were headed. As he anticipated, they soon cut away from the shoreline, crossed Water Street, and took Joliffe’s Lane toward Bishop’s Alley. They were walking toward Summer Street, where Sephira Pryce lived.

Convinced that he would be able to find the men there, Ethan retreated to his home on Cooper’s Alley and cast a new concealment spell. He felt the thrum of power from the casting and knew that Spectacles would sense it also. But he hoped that the conjuring would be far enough away that it wouldn’t unduly alarm the man. As Ethan spoke the spell Uncle Reg appeared, his eyes bright and eager in the dim light of Ethan’s room.

“You can’t come along,” Ethan told the ghost. “Spectacles will see you, even if he can’t see me. I can’t take the risk.”

Uncle Reg shook his head.

“I’m sorry. Dimitto te. ” I release you.

The ghost glowered at him, even as he faded from view.

Sheathing his knife once more, Ethan left the room and descended the stairs, taking each step with care. He couldn’t be seen, but he could still be heard, and he didn’t want to frighten Henry, the cooper who rented him his room.

Shelly waited for him at the base of the stairway leading from his room down to the alley behind Henry’s shop, her tail wagging. For some reason Ethan had never understood, dogs could see him even when he was concealed with a conjuring. He squatted down beside her, glancing around as he did to make certain that no one was watching.

“You have to stay here, Shelly,” he whispered, scratching her head. “Or else you’re likely to get me killed.”

She licked his hand, but when he stood once more and walked away, she remained by Henry’s cooperage.

Ethan followed Milk Street to Long Lane, stepping around people, placing his feet with care, and when possible using the rattle of passing carriages to mask his footsteps. Halfway along the lane Ethan cut between two houses and into d’Acosta’s Pasture, an open expanse of grazing land sparsely occupied by cows and horses. After crossing the southern corner of the field and slipping between another pair of yards, he reached Summer Street and Sephira’s house.

It was a large, white marble structure with a cobblestone path winding to the front door past tasteful well-kept gardens. It looked nothing like the house one might have expected Boston’s most notorious thieftaker to own. Then again, Sephira had never been one to conform to expectations.