D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“The point is, Mister Kaille, Mackintosh was working with us. But now he’s out of control. He’s hurting our cause far more than he’s helping it, and he’s creating havoc in the streets of Boston. We thought that he and the men he commands would strengthen our cause, and instead they have, unwittingly no doubt, become perhaps our greatest liability. If I didn’t know better, I might wonder if he was taking direction from the Crown itself.” He paused, sipping his ale. “I don’t know who killed the Berson girl. That’s what you came to find out, is it not? And in truth, none of us knows for certain what happened to her. But we know that Mackintosh incited that mob, that had it not been for his exhortations, the excesses of August twenty-six would never have occurred. For that alone, the man deserves to be punished.”

Ethan shook his head slowly. He hadn’t come for a lesson in politics, and he wanted nothing to do with the Sons of Liberty or, for that matter, those arrayed against them. He had hoped to learn something of value about Jennifer Berson from these men. Perhaps he should have known better. “Were any of you in the streets that night?” he asked. “Did you actually see anything that might help me in my inquiry?”

They looked at one another, shaking their heads.

“No,” Darrow said. “Samuel has told you the truth. The Sons of Liberty had nothing to do with what happened that night. We did not condone the riot at North Square. We had word that Mackintosh intended to do to the Story and Hallowell homes what had been done to Andrew Oliver’s house. But that was to be all. And we ourselves wanted no part of it.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Ethan stood. “I don’t consider myself a proponent of liberty, gentlemen. At least not by your definition. But still, I would have expected more from men such as yourselves.” His gaze lingered for a moment on Adams, who stared back at him, unfazed by his words. “Good day.”

He left the tavern, climbed the steep stairway, and stepped out onto Union Street once more. A soft rain still fell over the city, blown in off the harbor by a stiff, cool wind. Ethan began to make his way toward the Dowser. When he was halfway there, he changed his mind and continued south toward King’s Chapel. Henry Caner’s objections notwithstanding, Ethan needed to speak one last time with Mr. Pell. Probably the minister wouldn’t be able to help him, but there was always a chance.

Treamount Street was crowded with people making their way home from the market and from their work. Carriages rattled past, and Ethan had to twist his body one way and then another to avoid others walking along the side of the lane.

As he walked, he spotted Mr. Caner walking in his direction. He lowered his gaze, hoping that the rector hadn’t seen him. The last thing he needed was for the minister to inquire as to where he was headed. He walked quickly, his head down, occasionally sending furtive glances in Caner’s direction.

And so at first he didn’t notice the carriage that halted just ahead of him. But then the door swung open and he heard a familiar voice speak his name.

“Kaille.”

Ethan stopped and looked into the carriage. Nigel leaned forward from his seat, staring out at him, smiling. He held a pistol, its hammer pulled back, its barrel aimed directly at Ethan’s heart.

Firearms were crude weapons, not known for their accuracy or reliability. But Nigel was only a few feet from him, and not for a moment did Ethan doubt that he would shoot if Ethan gave him the opportunity. No doubt only the crowd around them had kept him from pulling the trigger already.

“Go for yar knife, an’ ya’re dead,” the man drawled.

Ethan took a step back, then stopped, feeling something sharp pressed against his lower back. He glanced over his shoulder. Nap was behind him, knife in hand.

He took Ethan’s blade from its sheath, and said “Get in,” in a low voice.

People on the lane had started to take notice of them, and Caner had to be close by. For a moment Ethan considered shouting for help. But these were Sephira’s men; some on the street already seemed to have recognized them as such. No one would come to his aid if they thought for a moment that it might mean incurring the Great Lady’s wrath.

He searched again for anyone who might help him. But there was no one. He didn’t even see Caner anymore. Perhaps the minister had walked past without Ethan knowing it. Having no choice, he climbed into the carriage.

“Tha’s smart that is,” Nigel said, as Ethan took the seat opposite his. “It’s too bad y’arn’t always tha’ smart.”

Nap climbed in after him and sat beside his comrade.

Nigel pulled the door closed and rapped twice on the outside of the door. Immediately the carriage lurched forward.

“Where are we going?” Ethan asked.

The two men stared out their respective windows, saying nothing.

They followed the one lane a long way, until Ethan wondered if they intended to take him over the Neck, through the town gate and out into the country along the road toward Roxbury. If they intended to kill him and leave his body, that would be as convenient a place as any. But they turned to the west off Orange Street before they reached the gate, and turned a second time soon after. At last, they rolled to a stop. Nigel got out first and motioned with his gun for Ethan to follow him. Nap simply grinned, toying with Ethan’s knife.

A light rain still fell on the city, and the sky had begun to darken.

“Hello, Ethan.”

He knew that voice, too. Herself.

Ethan ignored her for the moment, and tried to get his bearings. In the gathering gloom, it took him a few seconds to figure out where they were. He could make out Beacon Hill in the distance, shrouded in mist, and closer he saw the Common Burying Ground. He thought they must be at the end of Pleasant Street, a deserted stretch of road that jutted into Boston Common. He noticed lines of ropewalks in the distance, but the workers had abandoned them for the night. Aside from a few cattle, there wasn’t another soul in sight. This, he realized, would also be a pretty convenient place for them to kill him.

At last, he looked at Sephira. She stood in the lane, flanked by eight men, including Gordon and the brute he had seen on the street the day before. Ethan glanced back and saw four more men standing with Yellow-hair and Nap.

“Sephira. We should really stop meeting like this.”

“Oh, I assure you,” she said, without even a hint of a smile, “this is the last time.”

Ethan stared back at her and pushed up his sleeves, knowing that he could scratch at his arms enough to hold off a few of her toughs, but not all of them. He heard Sephira laugh.

“You going to claw at yourself again, Ethan?”

“If I have to.”

“Oh, you’ll have to.” She held two fingers to her lips and whistled loudly.

Immediately her men stepped in front of her and spread to form a broad arc. Nigel and his men had done the same. Within moments Ethan would be surrounded. He searched for anything he might use against them, but didn’t see much. Although…

Deserted as it was, this part of the lane was rough and overgrown with weeds. Stooping quickly, Ethan grabbed two handfuls of grass, straightened, and scattered the stalks in a wide circle all around him.

“ Ignis, ” he said in a low voice. “ Ex gramine evocatus. ” Fire, conjured from grass.

Uncle Reg appeared, shining like the rising moon, his teeth bared.

Flames shot up around Ethan and the old ghost, throwing off enough heat to warm Ethan’s face and hands. There were a few spots where the grass hadn’t spread evenly, but Ethan pulled some more from the ground and filled the gaps, muttering the spell to himself. He would have to keep feeding it; the spell wouldn’t last forever. But it offered him some protection from Sephira and her men.