A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) by D. B. Jackson Page B

would have to figure out how to arrange a conversation without also involving Nigel, Nap, and Gordon.
    “There you are!”
    He turned. Kannice was crossing to the bar bearing two canvas sacks filled with fowl, vegetables, and fish. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could see corded muscle beneath the skin of her slender arms. She kissed him lightly on the lips and heaved the bags onto the bar.
    “Kelf!” she called.
    The barman emerged from the back.
    “There’s flour and cream waiting at the market. It’s paid for, but I couldn’t carry it.”
    “Course you couldn’t,” Kelf said. He glanced at Ethan and shook his head. “Wisp of a thing like her—I don’t know how she carries anythin’.” He lumbered to the door. “I’ll be back.”
    Kannice carried one of the sacks into the kitchen.
    “Do you need help?” Ethan asked.
    “Don’t you start, too!” she called.
    “All right.” He waited until she came back for the second sack. “Kelf mentioned that someone came in looking for me.”
    “That’s right. A young couple, Darcy and Ruth Walters. Darcy said you knew his mother.”
    Ethan felt an involuntary shudder run through his body. “Aye,” he whispered.
    Kannice’s brow creased. “Are you all right?”
    “What else did he say?” Ethan asked.
    “Just that they needed your help.”
    “I’m sure they do.” He drained his ale and headed for the door.
    “Who are they? Who was his mother?”
    “A conjurer,” Ethan said over his shoulder. “She died a fortnight ago.”

 
    Chapter
    S IX
     
 
    Patience Walters was a spellmaker of modest abilities who lived in New Boston until succumbing to pneumonia in mid-June. Ethan had gotten to know her only in the last year or two of her life, but he enjoyed her company. She was a diminutive woman with bright green eyes, a quick smile, and a soft, almost demure laugh. She liked to talk about conjuring—something Ethan didn’t get to do very often—and though she did not cast many spells in the last years of her life, she seemed to take great pleasure in asking Ethan questions about his spellmaking. He downplayed his own talent, often telling her that he knew of several spellers, including Janna, who could tell her far more about conjuring than he could, but each time she would wave off his protestations and ask him for another story.
    Darcy had not inherited his mother’s abilities, but he and Ruth welcomed Ethan into their home, and often sat with him and Patience as they talked. Ruth had recently given birth to a son, Benjamin, whom they named for Darcy’s deceased father.
    With all that he had seen this day, Ethan had little doubt as to why they wished to engage his services. Still, he was puzzled. Patience had been buried only a fortnight before in the Common Burying Ground, and Ethan had seen no disturbed graves there. He even convinced himself that because no one who had been involved in the old witch trials was buried there, the burying ground had been spared. He had attended Patience’s funeral, and so knew exactly where on the grounds she had been buried. Yet today he had been too distracted to think of seeking out her grave in particular. She had died so recently; if any graves at the burying ground had been robbed, hers would have been one of them. He berated himself for his carelessness.
    The Walters house was a small brick structure on Lynde Street, near the West Meeting House, and only a short walk from the Dowser. Ethan covered the distance in as little time as his bad leg would allow, and knocked on the door rather more forcefully than necessary.
    He had to wait but a moment before the door opened.
    “Ethan!” Darcy said. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”
    “I came as quickly as I could,” he said.
    Darcy waved him into the house, and shut the door behind him. He was taller than his mother, although not by much. In other ways—the vivid green eyes, the oval face, the easy, open manner—he resembled her a good deal. He wore