D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

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Preston turned to the doctor. “And how exactly did they die?”

Rickman was watching Ethan. “We don’t know that, either.”

“You must have some idea, Doctor. Nearly a hundred men are dead-the crew in addition to these regulars. Was it an illness of some kind? Could it be yellow fever so far north this time of year? Was it influenza? It couldn’t have been smallpox-not from the looks of these men.”

At last Rickman turned to face the captain. “We’re still trying to determine what it was. There are several possibilities, but we don’t know yet.”

Preston frowned. “Well, you should inform us when you do.”

“Of course, Captain.”

The captain glanced once more at Ethan and left the vault. The corporal hurried after him.

Neither Ethan nor the doctor said a word until the sound of the officers’ footsteps on the stone stairway had receded. Ethan heard no more rocket explosions, but he couldn’t say for certain when they had ceased. Uncle Reg still lurked beside him in the corridor, and it occurred to Ethan that because he had summoned the ghost, Reg couldn’t leave until he dismissed him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to in front of Rickman.

“What do you think I should tell the captain, Mister Kaille?” the doctor asked after some time, looking over the corpses arrayed in front of them. “Shall I make up some tale about yellow fever or pleurisy?”

“I’m not a doctor,” Ethan said, stepping past him and starting to make his way toward the stairway.

“I didn’t say you were. But I knew a man once-you remind me of him.”

Ethan halted, took a breath, turned.

“He was a wheelwright in Farnborough,” Rickman went on. “He kept to himself, but he was well known in the city nevertheless. Strange things always seemed to happen when he was around. Inexplicable things. One winter he took ill, and I was called in to look at him. He had a tumor-it should have killed him. And yet by spring he was well again, and he lived to be an ill-tempered old man.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“There were whispers, rumors,” the doctor said, walking toward Ethan. “People said that he cured himself with witchcraft, that in fact he had drawn upon the dark arts throughout his life. He never did anything too grand. I don’t believe he wanted that kind of attention. But I do know that nothing short of witchery could have saved his life.”

Ethan could no longer look Rickman in the eye. “Again, I have to ask you: What does this-?”

“I believe these men were killed by some sort of devilry,” Rickman said. He stopped a few paces short of where Ethan stood. “What’s more, I believe you know this already, and that you were asked to inquire into their deaths for that very reason.”

“I see,” Ethan said. “So you also suspect that I’m a conjurer myself.”

“Yes, I do.”

Ethan forced a thin smile. He was too weary to deny it, and he didn’t think that Rickman would have believed him anyway. “Very good, Doctor. I hope you’ll keep in mind that people like me are still hanged as witches. I’d prefer that others didn’t know.”

Rickman blinked once, his mouth open. For all the man’s bluster and confidence, he seemed to have been quite unprepared for Ethan’s admission.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course. I mean, no, I won’t tell anyone. I just-” He regarded Ethan with wonder, his face like that of a child watching rockets go off for the first time. “You really are a witch?”

Maybe Ethan should have been amused, but having the truth wrung out of him for the second time this day had put him in a sour mood. “We prefer to be called conjurers or spellers,” he said, his voice flat. “But yes, I am.”

“Good Lord,” the doctor said, breathless. “I have so many questions.”

Ethan turned and walked to the stairs. “I’m sure. But it’s late, and I have no desire to answer them.”

He started to climb out of the vaults, and a moment later heard Rickman hurrying after him. Uncle Reg walked at Ethan’s side, watching him expectantly.

“Sorry,” Ethan whispered. “ Dimitto te. ” I release you.

“Perhaps we can speak tomorrow,” the doctor said, the words echoing in the narrow stairway.

Ethan said nothing.

The air aboveground had grown as cool as that in the vaults, and a fine gray mist had settled over Castle William, partially obscuring the stars overhead. Ethan could still hear a few men singing on the ships, but the choruses of “Yankee Doodle” seemed to have stopped.

Rickman and Ethan walked to the officers’ barracks, a short distance south of the vault, and found a pair of empty cots set just inside the door of the first building. Ethan was famished and would have liked to wash off the faint musty smell of the vaults. He thought he could also smell the stink of rot and death on his clothing, but he might have imagined it. He had spent too much of his day among the dead. Despite his hunger and his desire to bathe, he fell onto one of the cots and soon had drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber.

He awoke to find himself alone in the barracks. Daylight streamed in through the building’s small windows, and a steady wind whistled in the stone. Officers shouted commands on the parade nearby, their calls a counterpoint to the rhythm of marching and the rattle of rifle drills.

Ethan climbed out of bed, ran a hand through his hair, and headed outside. The sky was covered with high, white clouds. Ethan shielded his eyes with an open hand and looked around for Rickman or any other familiar face. Seeing no one he knew, he walked back to the vaults and descended the stairs. Before he reached the corridor he heard voices and thought he could smell a hint of rot coming from all those bodies.

Stepping into the torchlight, he saw the doctor standing with the corporal from the previous night and a second British officer he didn’t recognize.

“Ah, Mister Kaille,” Rickman said. “Welcome. If you can bear with us for a minute or two, I think we’ll have a name for you.”

“All right.”

The three men wasted little time moving down the line of dead. They bothered only with those men who hadn’t been identified the night before. When they reached the last of the bodies, Rickman looked through the manifest once more and nodded, a satisfied grin on his face.

“Simon Gant,” the doctor said, looking at Ethan.

“Gant,” Ethan repeated. The name sounded familiar. He said it again and looked at the corporal he had met the night before. “Do you know him? Can you tell me anything about him?”

The young officer’s jaw tightened. “Aye, I know him, the deserting bastard. I’d like to get my hands on him, too. Never liked him. Always thought he was hiding something, if you know what I mean. I should have known he’d come to this.”

“Maybe I can find him for you,” Ethan said. “Tell me what he looks like.”

“He’s a big man,” the corporal said. “Tall, brawny. He has red hair and a ruddy face. I suppose some might say he’s good-looking; he always seemed to have a lady with him when he was on leave.”

An image had started to form in Ethan’s mind. He had seen this man; he felt certain of it.

“His nose looks like it had been broken a couple of times, but the really odd thing about him is that his eyes-”

“Are different colors!” Ethan broke in.

“That’s right!” said the man, sounding surprised. “One’s blue and the other’s green. You know him?”

“It seems that I do,” Ethan said. “I needed the reminder. Thank you.”

The corporal grinned.

Ethan knew Gant, all right. He had met the thief once, years ago, when he first returned to Boston from Barbados. But the memory of their encounter remained clear, because of all that had come after. As the corporal said, Gant was a brute of a man; tall, broad-shouldered, thick around the middle. He had stolen some coin and jewelry from a home in the North End, and the man he robbed, a shopkeeper of some limited means, was one of the first to hire Ethan as a thieftaker.

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