Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) by D. B. Jackson Page B

since you…” He faced Ethan again. “Are you—?”
    “Am I what?” Ethan asked, casting a dark look Geoffrey’s way. For someone who had all but forced Ethan to involve himself in this matter, Brower seemed awfully quick to cast doubts on his trustworthiness. He had spent too much time listening to Ethan’s sister cast aspersions on his character. “A rabble-rouser?” Ethan suggested. “A Son of Liberty?” He shook his head. “No, I’m not. But more importantly, for all intents and purposes, you’ve hired me, and that buys you not only my skills as a thieftaker, but also my discretion.”
    Senhouse’s expression brightened. “Thank you.”
    No one spoke again until a faint cry of “Ahoy, the Graystone !” reached them.
    Senhouse looked back over his shoulder. “Ahoy!” he called back. “My transport is coming,” he told Ethan and Brower. “I’ll climb down and meet them; fewer questions that way. Until later, gentlemen.”
    The lieutenant swung himself over the gunwale and began to climb back down the ratlines. When he had vanished from view, Ethan cast another glare at Geoffrey and started away, manifest in hand.
    According to the papers, the Graystone left Halifax with a complement of fourteen crewmen, seventy-four regulars, and four army officers, plus the six naval officers and Lieutenant Waite. One regular had died, apparently of a fever, and had been buried at sea. That had left a total of ninety-eight men aboard the vessel.
    Ethan paused and looked around once more. Two officers lay on the deck, and the other four were still in their quarters. The commander was accounted for.
    “Geoffrey, would you mind counting the crew members?”
    Geoffrey had settled himself on a barrel, his back against the foremast. “What? Count them? What for?”
    “I would like to be able to account for every man who’s supposed to be here.”
    Ethan felt certain that Geoffrey would refuse, but he heaved a sigh and stood. “Very well.”
    “Thank you. Just the crewmen. I’ll count the regulars.”
    Geoffrey scowled, but walked across the deck to the cluster of dead crewmen at the stern.
    Ethan began to count the regulars.
    “There are six of them,” Geoffrey called.
    Ethan didn’t bother looking back at him. “There should be more below.”
    “You want me to go back down there?”
    At that Ethan did turn.
    Geoffrey sighed again, sounding more like a spoiled boy than a customs agent. “All right,” he said, and climbed down into the hold.
    With Geoffrey gone, Ethan turned once more to the soldiers. He walked the length of the deck on the starboard side and back the other way on the port side. All told he counted twenty-four regulars and one army officer.
    As he started toward the hatch leading down to the hold, Geoffrey emerged once more, looking pale, his face covered with a fine sheen of sweat.
    “There were eight more down there. That makes fourteen total.”
    “That matches what’s on the manifest,” Ethan said.
    “As I would have expected.”
    Ignoring the comment, Ethan went below. It didn’t take him long to find the other three army officers in their hammocks. Satisfied that all the commissioned men were accounted for, he began to work his way through the hold, counting soldiers. But he knew that Geoffrey had been right: He was wasting his time. All the officers and crew were here on the ship. The regulars would be, too.
    Except that they weren’t.
    There should have been forty-nine soldiers belowdecks. He counted forty-eight. He counted them twice more and reached the same total each time. At last he went back onto the deck and counted the men up there a second time. Twenty-four. He read through the manifest again, searching for any other notations of soldiers lost in transit to Boston. But there were none.
    “How many regulars do you see up here?” Ethan asked.
    Brower stood and turned a slow circle. “Twenty or so, I’d say.”
    “No, I need you to count them.”
    Geoffrey made no