D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“What is all this, Sheriff? Why have you brought this man into my chapel?”

Greenleaf blinked. “Mister Pell didn’t tell you?”

“I’m not speaking to Mister Pell, am I?” the rector said. “I asked you a question. What is this man doing here?”

“We… we found him with Miss Pryce. He was… he was standing at the center of a ring of flame that I believe he started with some kind of… witchcraft. And two of Miss Pryce’s men had been wounded. One had been burned. I believe the other had broken bones in both legs. I expect those injuries also were the result of some devilry.” He turned to Pell, looking for help. “Don’t you agree, Mister Pell?”

“He’s wounded, too,” the rector said, before Pell could respond. “Did you notice that?”

Greenleaf shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well… um… yes. Yes, I did.”

“Do you believe that those injuries also came from witchcraft?”

“No, Reverend, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because one of Miss Pryce’s men had a pistol that might have been used to shoot his arm.”

“I see,” Caner said. “And what about that bruise on his head?”

“I don’t know how he got that, Mister Caner,” Greenleaf answered. “I suppose one of Pryce’s men could have done that, too.”

“Did you actually see this man cast any sort of… spell?”

The sheriff rubbed a hand over his mouth. “No, Reverend, sir. But Miss Pryce said-”

“They were fighting-this man, and Miss Pryce’s men. Is that not so?” Caner’s expression was severe.

“Well, yes, it is. But-”

“I understand that Miss Pryce enjoys some renown in this city, but for all she does on behalf of the people of Boston, we must remember that she is a creature of the streets, just as Mister Kaille is. Did it never occur to you that she might have made the accusations she did to bring injury to an enemy?”

“Well-”

Caner regarded Ethan dismissively. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

“But, the fires-” Greenleaf began.

“The fires must have been set by Pryce’s men,” Pell said. “As you say, Sheriff, we found Mister Kaille standing in the center of the ring, and Miss Pryce’s men were all around him. It retrospect it seems that he was the one most at risk from those flames.”

The sheriff gaped at Pell. “But you said that he-”

“I’m afraid I might have been mistaken,” the young minister said. “My apologies.”

Caner laid a hand on Pell’s shoulder and offered an indulgent smile. “Mister Pell is new to the ministry and is still subject to some of the foibles of youth. I’m sure you understand.”

Greenleaf straightened and glowered at Caner and the minister. “I think I do, Mister Caner,” he said pointedly. He eyed Ethan again.

“You did all that you could under the circumstances,” Caner told him. “You have my deepest gratitude.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the sheriff said. The rector’s words were a clear dismissal. He regarded Ethan once more. “I’m sure our paths will cross again, Kaille. I, for one, will be looking forward to it.” He nodded to Pell, cast one last dark look Ethan’s way, and left the chapel.

Even after the door closed, Ethan waited several moments before asking Caner, “Why would you do that?”

The rector shrugged, opened his hands. “I saw you taken. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have thought to intervene. A dispute between two thieftakers is no concern of the Church. But in this case, I thought to make an exception. Not for your sake, but for that of Abner and Catherine Berson.”

“Well, thank you. I’m in your debt.”

“A debt you can repay by renouncing witchery, turning to God, and vowing never to let the words of a conjuring pass your lips again.”

Ethan stared at the man. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He glanced at Pell, whose eyes were trained on the floor, his lips pursed.

At last, Ethan faced the rector once more. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mister Caner.”

He expected the man to pursue the point. Instead, Caner’s mouth quirked to the side. “No, I don’t suppose you can. But the Lord wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t try.” He started toward the door of the chapel. “I won’t always be so tolerant, Mister Kaille. Don’t let me hear of you conjuring again.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Trevor, I expect you to retire shortly. You have your studies, and I won’t have you wandering the city at all hours.”

“Yes, Mister Caner.” When the rector was gone, Pell beckoned to Ethan. “Come. We’ll get you to a surgeon.”

“I can heal myself. I’ve already done a bit on the bullet wound.”

Pell eyed him sternly, although the effect was muted somewhat by the youthfulness of his face. “I don’t care. Mister Caner and I just lied to Sheriff Greenleaf in order to keep him from imprisoning you as a witch! You will not heal yourself of these wounds!”

Ethan didn’t argue. He gestured for the minister to lead the way. “How did you know where to find me?” he asked as they walked out of the chapel and onto Treamount.

“Mister Caner said they had taken you toward the Neck,” Pell said. “So we started in that direction. When I heard the pistol, I thought it might be aimed at you, so we followed the sound of the report.”

“Well,” Ethan said, “you saved my life. You and Mister Caner. I couldn’t have fought off Sephira and her men much longer.”

“I thought you were doing pretty well.”

“You mean aside from the bullet wound and the bruise and that dented rib I mentioned.”

Pell grinned. “Well, yes, aside from all of that.”

They had turned down Winter Street and were approaching Newbury Street, and the pasture lands.

“Where are we going?” Ethan asked.

“To the home of a doctor I know.”

“A member of the congregation?”

Pell shook his head. “Someone I met when I first came to Boston. I’d come from western Connecticut, and had been taken with a fever. Doctor Church got me well.”

They stopped at a modest house with a gabled roof and a welcoming glow of candles shining from within. Pell knocked once, and after a short wait the door opened, revealing a tall man with stooped shoulders and long, powdered hair. His eyes were deep-set, his nose strong, his chin somewhat weak.

“Mister Pell,” the man said, sounding genuinely surprised and pleased to see the minister.

“Good evening, Doctor Church,” Pell said. “Forgive us for imposing on your time so late in the evening. I bring you a patient; a friend of mine who is in need of your skills.”

The doctor looked at Ethan, his eyes lingering briefly on the bruise on Ethan’s temple and the bloodstains on his coat.

“Of course,” the man said. He stepped aside and waved them into the house.

The door opened onto a comfortable sitting room, illuminated by spermaceti candles and warmed by a fire in the hearth.

“Doctor Benjamin Church,” Pell said, “may I introduce, Ethan Kaille. Ethan, Doctor Church.”

Ethan and the doctor shook hands.

“Who is it, Benjamin?” came a woman’s voice from another room.

“A patient, Hannah,” the doctor called. “No need to trouble yourself.” He eyed Ethan again. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, and led them to a back room.

He lit several candles, their glow building gradually to reveal a chamber that was far more austere than the previous one. Jars and bottles jostled for room atop of a cabinet against one wall. Next to it, a table held a number of steel surgical instruments. Ethan glanced at them before quickly looking away. Healing himself with conjurings was one thing; surgeons made him queasy.

Dr. Church pulled a chair to the middle of the room. “Sit,” he said.