D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“I believe that the circumstances justify what he did.” The minister hesitated, but only for a moment. “And I believe it’s possible that his gifts come not from Satan, but from our Lord God.”

The rector gaped at him, his small mouth hanging open.

“We can discuss theology later,” Ethan said. “For now, I need to know as much about this girl as you can tell me.”

Caner continued to stare at Pell, his expression more sad than angry, his heavy-lidded eyes making him look weary.

“Mister Caner?” Ethan said.

“There’s not much to tell,” the rector said, still eyeing the young minister. “She was found near the wharves in the South End, by a man and woman who were…” He paused, shook his head. “Well, in any case, they found her and sought out a member of the watch. The girl’s mother is a widow, and they have little money. I fear the girl was working in the streets, if you follow.”

Ethan winced. She was too young to have been leading such a hard life.

“You say there have been four murders?” Caner asked.

“I believe so. This girl, Jennifer Berson, the young boy who died on Pope’s Day-Brown was his name-and another who was killed the day that Ann and John Richardson were hanged.”

“The boy was killed by witchery? I thought he was run over by a cart.”

“He was,” Pell said. “But after he died.”

Caner’s brow creased. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“I know you don’t,” Ethan said, feeling sympathy for the rector in spite of all that had passed between them. “These people were killed by a conjurer, who used their lives to lend strength to his spells. And these spells, I believe, were intended to control the behavior of others.”

To his credit, the minister didn’t dismiss these claims out of hand. But neither did he sound convinced as he asked, “Do you know this for certain, or is it conjecture?”

“I have some proof,” Ethan said. He indicated the girl. “You see that glow-”

“You did that,” Caner said.

“Yes, I did. I cast a revealing spell. What you see there is the mark of the conjurer who killed her. If this man had killed her with an attack, the silver glow would be concentrated wherever his spell struck her. Instead, it covers her entire body, because instead of hitting her, like a conjured weapon, the spell drew the life out of her. It used her to bend the will of another. Killing her wasn’t the aim of the spell; her death was the means to another end.”

“This is sorcerous nonsense!” Caner said. “For all I know, you’re concocting all of this to confound me!”

Ethan shook his head. “You’re wise enough to know I’m not. I can take that spell off of her. It would take another casting, but I could do it. Then you would be free to examine her for yourself and see that there isn’t a single physical mark on her. But I don’t think I have to. You’ve already seen her. You know that a conjuring killed her. And now you know what kind of a spell it was.”

The rector regarded him grimly, his lips pressed thin. “The only conjurer that I know of in this city is you, Mister Kaille,” he finally said, the word “conjurer” sounding awkward coming from his mouth. “If she was killed by witchery, chances are you’re the one who did it. I should call for Sheriff Greenleaf right now.”

“Then do,” Ethan told him. “If you really believe I did it, then you’re right: You should have me hanged. A killing spell…” He faltered, his eyes stinging at the thought of Pitch. “It’s a relatively painless way to die, but it’s murder nevertheless. If I had done this, I would deserve whatever punishment you could imagine. But I didn’t.”

Caner shook his head fiercely. “You offer no proof! Your denials mean nothing to me. You’re a witch!”

“I’m a speller who is trying to prevent another tragedy. Consider what I’m telling you, Mister Caner. This girl’s murder had an even darker purpose, just like the other murders this conjurer committed. He used her death to cast another spell. And while I don’t know for sure, I believe that all these murders are connected, that they have some larger purpose. That’s why you must trust me, even though I’m a conjurer. I’m the only person who can stop him.”

Again the minister stared at him; he looked thoroughly unnerved. Which did he fear more: Ethan, or his own ignorance in matters relating to “witchery”?

“What is it you want me to do?” Caner finally asked, surrender in his voice.

“Well, you can start by promising that you won’t have me hanged.”

Caner waved a meaty hand, either dismissing the notion, or accepting it without argument, Ethan wasn’t sure which. “What else?” the rector asked.

Ethan started to answer, but then stopped, the memory coming to him at last. It hadn’t been his imagination; there had been something. “I need to borrow Mister Pell,” he said.

Caner narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

“Yes,” Pell said, his eyes wide with surprise. “What for?”

Ethan grinned at his friend. “I need to watch two people, and I’m but one man. I told you before that you might make a fine thieftaker. If Mister Caner will grant his permission, we can put that notion to a test.”

Caner scowled at them both. Pell fairly beamed.

Ethan was more eager than ever to speak with Cyrus Derne, eager enough that he had abandoned any hope of contriving another meeting between himself and the merchant. Derne had decided to use his money and influence to protect himself from Ethan’s questions; Ethan would use his conjuring skill to slip past the men Derne had hired as guards.

From King’s Chapel, Ethan made his way back to the Derne house on Bennet’s Street to confirm what he already suspected. The chaises were gone. Derne had probably returned to his wharf. Ethan went there next. Along the way, he stopped in a deserted alley and cast the same concealment spell he had used the previous evening while walking from Elli’s house to the Dowsing Rod. Once more he knew that he risked alerting the conjurer to his whereabouts, and if Derne was Jennifer Berson’s killer, the merchant would have no trouble seeing through Ethan’s spell. But he would deal with that when the time came. The casting would at least allow him to get past the guards at the base of Derne’s Wharf, and whatever others the merchant had positioned between the street and the warehouse where he had his office.

As Ethan walked, he took care to tread softly. This was easy enough on the cobblestones of Boston’s streets, but when Ethan reached Derne’s Wharf, it became far more difficult. Like most of Boston’s wharves, this one was made of fill: solid refuse from shops and homes piled into wooden cribs and covered over with a blend of dirt and sand, of crushed seashells and rock. There wasn’t a man alive who could walk on fill without leaving an imprint with every step. Even after he slipped past the first guards onto the wharf, he had to creep along its edge, constantly watching for anyone who might come too close. Late in the day, he might have been able to reach Derne’s office quickly, but in the middle of the afternoon the wharf was crowded enough that people were constantly walking past in one direction or the other.

Halfway to Derne’s office he stopped, realizing once more that he had been foolish. He didn’t have to risk venturing farther out onto the wharf. Derne would take care of that for him. The merchant wouldn’t remain in his warehouse forever, and if he had dealings in the city that he wanted to keep from Ethan, chances were he wouldn’t want many others knowing about them, either. Eventually he would leave the building and abandon his escort. There was nothing for Ethan to do but wait.