D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Janna had given him another clue as well, though he hadn’t realized it at the time; he was sure she hadn’t either. She told him that she had used a killing spell to compel someone to love a wealthy man. This wasn’t surprising, really; control spells were among the most difficult castings known to the conjuring world. They were also among the most frequently used dark conjurings.

“Ethan!”

He realized that Diver had been speaking to him for some moments, repeating his name and asking him if he was all right. A few people had gathered around them in the street and were eyeing Ethan the way they would a drunk or a madman.

“I’m all right.” He glanced around. “Really,” he said loudly enough for the others to hear. “I’m fine.”

The strangers around him appeared unconvinced, and he could hardly blame them. Though the bruises on his face weren’t as tender as they had been a day or two before, they had begun to color, leaving him looking worse than ever. He was wet and bedraggled; his clothes were sodden. It was no wonder they thought him insane.

“Come on, then,” Diver said, tugging gently at his coat sleeve.

They started walking again, but Ethan no longer had any intention of going to the Dowser. Night would be falling in another hour or two, and he didn’t want to be abroad in the city after dark if he could help it. He would get to the tavern eventually, but first he needed more information. And it was about time that he spoke with those who he knew had been in the streets the night Jennifer Berson died.

“What was that all about, anyway?” Diver asked.

“I can’t tell you right now.” Ethan halted again. “Look, Diver, you go on without me. There’s something else I have to do.”

“Go on without you? But we’re just about there!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Diver threw his hands wide. “I wasn’t even going to the Dowser until you came along. What am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan said, starting away from him. “I said I was sorry.”

“Well can you at least tell me where you’re going?” his friend called after him.

“I have to speak with someone at another tavern.”

“What other tavern?”

He made no reply, though as he hurried back up Hanover Street he glanced over his shoulder one last time. Diver still stood in the road, his hands on his hips.

The Green Dragon Tavern was located on Union Street, just off of Hanover. It was a plain, two-story building with a pitched roof and a brick facade. There was nothing remarkable about it, save for the cast-iron rod that projected over the front door, serving as the perch for an iron sculpture of a crouching dragon, its wings raised, its mouth open in a fiery roar.

The first floor of the building had for years been used as a meeting house by the Freemasons. The tavern itself was located in the basement of the building. It was open to all, but since the passage of the first Grenville Act, the year before, it had gained a reputation as a gathering place for those who opposed Parliament’s actions. Ethan did not doubt that these same men had organized the Stamp Act riots.

A few men in workmen’s clothes milled about in the narrow street in front of the building, seemingly oblivious of the rain. Another man stood in the doorway, and he watched Ethan as he approached the tavern. But no one stopped him or offered a word of greeting. Ethan paused just inside the door, shook the rain off his coat like a hound, and then descended the stairs to the basement.

Halfway down, the smells reached him: pipe smoke and musty ale, roasted meat and freshly baked bread. Ethan paused at the bottom of the stairs. A fire burned in a large stone hearth on the far side of the room and candles flickered on every table. Light and shadows danced capriciously along the uneven wood planking on the floor and the dingy walls. A few men stood at the bar, mugs of ale in their hands. Ethan had heard conversations while coming down to the pub, but all of them ceased when he walked in. The men simply stared at him, their expressions far from welcoming.

Ethan stared back. Up on the street, in the light of day, he had considered this a fine idea. Down here in the inconstant gloom, he was having second thoughts.

“My name is Ethan Kaille,” he finally said. “I want to speak with those who led the demonstrations of three nights past.”

At first, no one answered. But then a single figure stepped away from the bar, a tankard of ale in his hand. He was about Ethan’s height and age, and he stood straight-backed, his pale blue eyes meeting and holding Ethan’s gaze. He wore a simple white shirt and black breeches, a red waistcoat, and a powdered tie wig.

“Good day, Mister Kaille,” he said in a ringing voice. “We’ve been expecting you. My name is Samuel Adams.”

Adams walked to where Ethan stood, and proffered a hand, which Ethan gripped.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Kaille,” he said, a disarming smile on his ruddy face. “I’ve heard a good deal about you.”

“And every man in Boston hears a good deal about Samuel Adams.”

“Yes, well, not all one hears can be credited.” His smile had turned brittle, and Ethan noticed that his head shook slightly, even as the man continued to hold his gaze. “My colleagues and I have been wishing to speak with you. We had every intention of inviting you here. We’re grateful to you for saving us the trouble.”

He caught the eye of a man standing by the bar. “James, would you be so kind as to fetch Mister Kaille an ale? Then you and Peter can join us at the table.” Adams faced Ethan again. “This way,” he said.

Ethan followed the man to a table by the fireplace and sat, his back to the far wall. Adams took the seat across from him and lifted his tankard to his lips with a trembling hand. Seeing that Ethan had noticed his tremor, he smiled once more, faintly this time.

“Palsy,” he said. “I’ve been plagued by it all my life, mild though it is.”

Ethan nodded, not knowing what to say.

A moment later, they were joined by two men. One of them, a portly man with a broad, heavy face, thin lips, and somewhat protuberant eyes, carried an extra ale, which he placed in front of Ethan before sitting beside him. The other man was as handsome as his companion was odd-looking. His face was square; his eyes were brown. He wore his hair long and in a plait, and he powdered it white.

“Allow me to introduce my friends,” Adams said. He indicated the portly man with an open hand. “This is James Otis.” Gesturing toward the other man, he said, “And this is Peter Darrow.”

Otis nodded. Darrow flashed a smile and proffered his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan shook the man’s hand before facing Adams again. “You said you had been expecting me. Then you know why I’ve come.”

“I believe we do, yes,” Adams said. “You’ve been hired by Abner Berson in the matter of his daughter’s death. Isn’t that right?”

“It is, sir. And nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about it believes that your friends were involved.”

Adams narrowed his eyes. “Our friends?”

“And who is it you’ve spoken to?” Otis broke in. “Berson’s friends, no doubt. Tories, every one.”

“He has a point,” Adams said. “Berson is well acquainted with those who administer the province. So is Cyrus Derne, who I believe was to marry Jennifer Berson.”

“So is Mister Kaille.”

“Meaning what?” Ethan demanded of Darrow, who had spoken.

The look in Darrow’s eyes had hardened. “The obvious. Your sister is married to a customs official, a friend of Andrew Oliver no less.”

“Geoffrey Brower? I barely speak to the man, much less consult with him during my inquiries.”