D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

The Nest had been in business since well before Ethan returned to Boston from the Indies, but over the years it had been run by a parade of ill-fated proprietors. One had been killed during a tavern brawl, at least three had been transported to the Caribbean for crimes ranging from theft to battery to murder, and another had disappeared under circumstances that to this day remained a mystery.

The current owner was a small, understandably skittish man named Joseph Duncan. Dunc spoke with a faint Scottish brogue and often rushed his words, making him difficult to understand under the best of circumstances. To make matters worse, he often had a lit pipe clenched between his teeth. He had taken ill during the smallpox epidemic of 1764, which proved even more deadly than the 1761 outbreak, and many assumed that he would meet a fate similar to that of other Crow’s Nest proprietors. But to everyone’s surprise, Dunc survived. His face, though, was ravaged by the disease, leaving his skin pitted and scarred.

When Ethan walked in, Dunc was standing at the bar, perusing a newspaper. He glanced up from the paper, but quickly went back to reading. An instant later, he looked up a second time and pulled the pipe from his mouth.

“You’re not welcome here!” he said, leveling a bony finger at Ethan. “I’ve told you that before.”

Ethan walked to the bar and tossed a half shilling onto the wood. “An ale,” he said to the bartender, a lanky man with large eyes and a crooked nose.

The bartender looked to Dunc, who was still eyeing Ethan.

“I’ll leave when I’ve finished my ale, Dunc,” Ethan said. “Not before. So you might as well tell him to serve me.”

Dunc glared at Ethan for another few seconds before replacing his pipe with a click of his yellow teeth on clay. “Fine,” he said, picking up his newspaper again. “One ale.”

The barkeep took Ethan’s coin and filled a tankard for him.

Ethan sipped his ale and leaned against the bar, eyeing the Scotsman. “I didn’t think you were the kind of man to hold a grudge for so long.”

Dunc continued to read, saying nothing.

“It looks like the repairs went well,” Ethan went on, surveying the tavern. “This place looks as shabby as ever.”

Dunc cast a dark look his way, but promptly turned to the paper once more. He was reading the Gazette , the foremost Whig newspaper in the city.

“You know, it really wasn’t my fault.”

Dunc threw the paper down on the bar. “Wasn’t your fault?” he repeated, spittle flying from the side of his mouth as he tried to talk around the pipe. “You come in here and call Sephira Pryce a liar and a cheat in front of all my patrons! And when her men go after you, you nearly burn the whole place down with what I can only assume was witch-”

Ethan raised a finger just in front of the man’s face, silencing him. “Keep your voice down!”

Dunc continued to glower at him, but for several moments he said nothing more. He puffed hard on his pipe, making the leaf in its bowl glow brightly in the dim tavern, and blew a cloud of sweet smoke from the corner of his mouth.

“What do you want, anyway?” he asked. “I thought you only drank in that tavern your woman owns.”

“I have some questions for you.”

The Scot’s laugh was high and harsh. “Are you fool enough to think I’d help you?” He leaned closer, and when he spoke again it was in a whisper. “Do you have any idea what Miss Pryce would do to me if she found out?”

“I have a fair notion, yes. Especially because this concerns her as well.” Ethan leaned toward the man and dropped his voice. “But do you have any idea what I’ll do to you if you don’t help me?”

Dunc stared back at him.

“She won’t find out,” Ethan said, his voice still low. “You have my word. And despite everything between us, you know what that’s worth.”

The Scot hesitated, nodded.

“Do you want to talk in back?”

Dunc shook his head. “People will see us go back there and they’ll know for sure that I helped you. Better we stay out here. Make it quick.”

“All right. What have you heard from Simon Gant lately?”

Dunc took a step back from him, nearly losing his footing as he did. “Gant? How do you-?” He clamped his mouth shut around the stem of his pipe, the bowl gleaming again. “No!” he said with a hard shake of his head. “I won’t speak of him!”

“Be reasonable, Dunc. You wouldn’t want me to leave here angry.”

“I’ll take my chances with you, Kaille. Better you than-” He shut his mouth again.

“Just tell me when you last saw him.”

Dunc shook his head and reached for his newspaper. Ethan slapped his hand down on the paper, making the smaller man flinch.

“Was it recently, within the last day or two?”

The Scotsman regarded him with wide, fearful eyes. But after a brief pause he nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Do you think he’s still in the city? Is that why you’re so scared?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Do you know why Sephira might be looking for him?”

“No,” he whispered. “I swear I don’t. But…” He licked his lips. “They didn’t part on the best of terms.”

That much Ethan had gathered for himself.

“Do you have any idea where he-?”

“No more, Ethan. Please.”

Ethan considered pushing him for one last answer, but in the next moment thought better of it. Dunc wasn’t a bad sort, and Ethan had no desire to see him beaten or killed. “All right. But know this. I’ll be watching the Nest. If Gant comes here-whether it’s to meet with someone or sell goods-I’ll learn of it. And if I have to tear this place apart to get at him, that’s what I’ll do. So you should ask yourself whether you’re better off protecting him or helping me.”

Dunc kept his eyes on Ethan, but he reached for the paper once more. This time Ethan let him have it. He drained his ale and left the tavern. He could threaten the man all he wanted; he knew that it wouldn’t change Dunc’s mind. Ethan couldn’t blame him. Had he been in the Scot’s position, he too would have been more afraid of Gant than of himself.

Ethan intended to go to the Dowser next. There had been no time for him to speak with Kannice before leaving the city the previous day, and she would be wondering why she hadn’t seen him last night.

But as he stepped out onto Centre Street he noticed that people were walking toward the shores of the harbor, and that a crowd had gathered down at the water’s edge. He thought he knew already what had drawn the interest of so many, but he followed Centre Street onto Lee’s Wharf to make certain. From the wharf, he had a clear view of the harbor and was able to confirm his suspicions.

The British fleet was on the move. The vessels were still arrayed around Castle William, but several had sweeps out. Others were already far enough from the fortress to have raised sails, and were now cutting across the harbor toward the city. Rickman had been right: The occupation would begin within the next day, perhaps this very night.

At least a hundred men and women were standing with Ethan on the wharf, and another dozen or two had gathered on the street behind them. Yet they were all so still, so utterly silent, that Ethan could have closed his eyes and convinced himself that he was alone.

“Won’t be long now,” one man finally murmured, breaking the silence. Others nodded their agreement.

“Let them come!” one young man cried.

People looked at him, but no one responded.

Ethan turned and started back up from the wharf. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he felt power hum in the cobblestone. It wasn’t a strong spell and it seemed to have been cast from a distance, but he sensed the conjuring spreading through the city like a ripple in the surface of a pond.