D. Jackson: A Plunder of Souls

Ethan retrieved Mr. Ellis’s dueling pistols from where they lay in the hole, brushing off the dirt and grass with which he and Salter had covered them in their haste. As an afterthought, he also retrieved Salter’s weapon.

“That’s mine,” the pup said.

“It was.” Ethan glanced back to make certain Sephira hadn’t decided to come back and kill them both after all. “Sephira is my problem, Peter. You’re to leave Boston, never to return.”

“But Boston is-”

“Your home,” Ethan finished for him. He had heard similar protests from thieves in the past. He preferred to let them go free when he could. He had spent too many years as a convict to take lightly the notion of sending a young man to prison over a few baubles. “Aye, I’m sure it is,” he said. “But you forfeited your right to remain here when you decided to do your thieving in the home of a wealthy man. Either you leave, or I’ll place you in the custody of Sheriff Greenleaf. He’s likely to be far less gentle with you than I’ve been. Or, if you like, I can leave you to Sephira and her men. As you say, it won’t be long before she realizes that she’s carrying your dirt-filled shoes instead of these ivory-handled pistols.”

“Can I go back to my room and gather my things?” the pup asked. “Can I try to find another pair of shoes?”

“You can. But I assure you, Sephira knows where you live.”

“How? Why? She doesn’t know anything about me, at least she didn’t before tonight.”

Ethan sympathized with the pup. How many times had Sephira bested him by somehow knowing his every movement, his constant whereabouts? “Believe me, I understand. But she knows now who you are, and your room will be the first place she looks for you.”

Salter’s expression curdled. “So, I’m supposed to walk out of the city and across the causeway wearing nothing on my feet?”

Ethan grinned. “Be glad I caught you in July rather than January.”

The pup didn’t appear to find much humor in this. He nodded toward the pistols. “How much is he paying you to retrieve those?”

“Three pounds,” Ethan said.

“I could have sold them for twice as much. Maybe more.”

“Aye,” Ethan said. “I’m sure you could have.” After a moment’s consideration, he tossed Salter’s pistol to the lad before turning away and starting the long walk back to the home of Andrew Ellis. “But,” he called over his shoulder, “they’re not yours to sell.”

Unfortunately for Ethan, Andrew Ellis’s estate on Winter Street stood almost within sight of Sephira’s mansion, which was located at the south end of Summer Street. Ethan had known since the day he took on this inquiry that it would be even harder than usual to keep Sephira from interfering with his search for the pistols, simply by dint of how close she lived to the client. But still-whether out of bravery or foolishness he couldn’t say for sure-he had accepted the job anyway.

He made his way from the Neck along the unpaved lane that fronted Boston’s Common, rather than following Orange Street back toward the South End. This allowed him to approach Ellis’s house from the west, rather than the east. If Sephira and her toughs were searching for him, he would see them coming.

As he walked he felt the power of a spell hum in the road. At first he wondered if it was Mariz, perhaps casting a finding spell in an attempt to locate him. But in the next instant he realized the spell had come from farther off. If he had to guess, he would have said it came from the South End waterfront. He wondered if old Gavin Black, a sea captain and conjurer who had lived in the city for years, was casting spells. Or if perhaps there was a new conjurer in Boston. His eyes trained eastward, he walked on.

The Ellis house, an imposing brick structure with a semicircular white portico in front, and a sloping lawn bounded by rich gardens, stood on the north side of Winter, halfway between the Common and Marlborough Street. Candlelight glowed in the windows; a warm breeze rustled the leaves of large elms growing in the yard, and whip-poor-wills sang overhead. Ethan followed a flagstone path to the door, glancing toward the street, and listening for Sephira and her men. Upon reaching the door, he rapped once with the brass lion’s-head knocker. After a short wait, the door opened to reveal an African servant wearing a white silk shirt and cravat, pale blue breeches, and a matching waistcoat.

The man regarded him with an expression that bespoke, in equal parts, indifference and disapproval. It occurred to Ethan that his clothes must look rumpled and filthy from his struggle with Salter, although as usual, the thought came to him too late to rectify the matter.

“Ethan Kaille to see Mister Ellis,” he said, hoping he sounded more dignified than he appeared.

The servant looked him up and down once more. “A moment please.” He started to walk away, but stopped and glanced at Ethan again, seeming concerned that Ethan might enter the house. Or rob it. “Wait here,” he said, and shut the door.

Ethan did not have to wait long. The door opened a second time, revealing the bulky figure of Andrew Ellis. He was dressed in a green silk suit with matching coat, breeches, and waistcoat-a ditto suit, as such sets were known. A pair of spectacles sat perched on his crooked nose. His hair was powdered and pulled back in a plait, accentuating his steep forehead and dark, wide-set eyes.

“Mister Kaille,” he said, sounding surprised to see him. “To what do I-?”

Ethan held up the dueling pistols, one in each hand.

A smile split the attorney’s face. “You’ve found them!”

“Aye, sir.”

Ellis took the weapons from him and started to walk back into the house, examining the pistols as he did. “Come in, come in,” he said over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought.

Ethan removed his hat, closed the door, and followed his client through the foyer and a large sitting room into a smaller study, the walls of which were lined with bookshelves. The house smelled of bayberry-no spermaceti candles for a man of Ellis’s means-and some kind of savory stew. The aroma made Ethan’s stomach rumble.

Ellis stopped in front of a writing desk on which burned an oil lamp, and eyed his weapons more closely. He brushed a small clump of dirt from one of the barrels, but then straightened and nodded.

“Well, these seem to have come through their ordeal relatively well.” Facing Ethan once more, he asked, “What can you tell me about the thief?”

“His name is Peter Salter, sir.”

“Salter,” Ellis repeated. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“I would have been surprised if you had, sir. He’s a street tough, a pup with little sense and even less ambition. But he won’t trouble you again.”

He hoped this would satisfy Ellis. He assumed that, like most of the men who hired him, the attorney would want to see the thief dealt with harshly. Ethan felt certain that Salter would leave Boston rather than risk Sephira’s wrath or Sheriff Greenleaf’s hard justice. He was less sure that the pup would manage to stay out of trouble in whatever town he inhabited next, but that was not his concern. He had endured nearly fourteen years as a convict, and he had seen what Sephira did to the thieves who crossed her path. Salter was a fool and a ruffian; he was often in the streets on Pope’s Day, brawling with the North End gangs. But Ethan couldn’t bring himself to destroy the pup’s life over a pair of dueling pistols. He hoped Salter wouldn’t be so careless as to allow Sephira and her men to find him.

“Very well,” Ellis said. He pulled a small pouch from a drawer in his desk. “I paid you fifteen shillings when I hired you. I believe that leaves me owing you two pounds and five.”