D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Otis nodded to Ethan and Pell, and followed Adams.

Ethan wanted to leave as well, but Greenleaf still had questions for him; he should have expected as much. He was more weary than he could ever remember, and wanted only to sleep. But he beckoned the man over and told him what he could of all Darrow had done. He skirted around the edges of the truth at times, taking care not to say too much about conjuring. He sensed that his answers served only to frustrate the sheriff more, but in the end there was little Greenleaf could do to him. Pell and the others had already made it clear that Ethan had been tortured; Darrow’s death could hardly be seen as anything other than self-defense.

“What do we do with his body?” the sheriff asked at last, as Ethan started to leave.

“What?”

“His body. He was a witch, wasn’t he? That’s what I gather from all you’ve said. Do we cut off his head or something?”

Ethan looked back at Darrow one last time. “No, nothing like that. Just bury him.” He turned to the minister. “Come on. I’ll walk with you back to your church.”

“Are you well enough?” Pell asked.

“I think so.”

They didn’t say much as they walked along the moonlit street. Ethan’s legs ached, and he was too weary to make conversation. Pell seemed to understand. But when they reached King’s Chapel, the minister slowed, his expression troubled. He pulled up his sleeve and examined the bloodless gash on his forearm.

“Does it hurt?” Ethan asked.

The minister shook his head. “No. It did when I cut myself, but then you cast your spell and… It felt odd.” He glanced at Ethan. “I’m not sure I liked it.”

Ethan nearly said, You get used to it. But he stopped himself. He could almost see Henry Caner scowling at him. “Well, let’s hope we never have to do that again,” he said instead, thinking that the rector would have approved.

Pell nodded, looking at his arm once more. “Do you think Adams is right?” he asked, pulling down his sleeve. “Will matters worsen before they get better?”

“I would think so,” Ethan said. “Grenville is determined to have his revenue; Adams and his friends are just as determined not to pay. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing.”

Pell gazed toward the rector’s house. “Mister Caner and I are on opposite sides of this.”

“You’re both men of God. That’s what matters.”

“Of course,” Pell said, though he sounded unsure. “Good night, Ethan. Rest well.”

“You, too, Mister Pell. Thank you.”

Ethan watched him enter the church. Then he walked on to the Dowser. He knew that he should be watchful as he made his way through the streets. If Sephira and her men chose this night to come after him he would be hard-pressed to protect himself. But he was too tired and too sore to do anything more than walk, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of his breeches.

He reached the tavern without incident. Upon entering he breathed in the warmth and the familiar aromas, and knew a moment of relief that almost brought tears to his eyes. The past several days had taken too much out of him. Before learning of Jennifer Berson’s death from Abner Berson’s servant, he had intended to rest for a few weeks. Now he promised himself that he would actually do it.

In the next instant, though, he spotted Diver sitting alone at a table in the back of the tavern. His weariness forgotten, he stalked across the main room to where his friend sat.

Kelf shouted out a “HiEthan!” but Ethan hardly heard him.

“Ethan!” Diver said, seeing him approach. “You don’t look-”

“What were you doing with Derne today?”

The younger man blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. What business did you have with Cyrus Derne?”

Diver stared down at his half-finished ale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Something inside of Ethan snapped. He grabbed Diver by the collar with both hands, lifted him out of his seat, overturning the chair, the table, and the ale as he did, and slammed his friend against the wall.

“Tell me!” he said, his face just inches from Diver’s. “I saw you with them! You and Cyrus Derne and Sephira Pryce and some other merchant! I saw you! Now tell me what you were doing with them, or I swear to God, Diver, I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life!”

He knew people were staring at them. He knew how angry Kannice would be. In that moment, he didn’t care.

“All right!” Diver said. “It was the wine and rum! Remember, I told you about them?”

“The wine and rum,” Ethan repeated. He didn’t know what Diver was talking about, and he actually drew back his fist intending to hit the man. But then it came to him. From France. The shipment Diver had been waiting for several nights earlier.

His anger began to sluice away, though he didn’t release Diver. Not yet. “Derne was involved with that?” he said.

“He didn’t want to sell them directly, because of the new laws. But he was one of the merchants backing us. So was Greg Kellirand-that’s the other man you saw us with.”

“And Sephira?”

Diver’s gaze slid away. “It wasn’t my idea to involve her. Derne wanted her in, and I couldn’t just walk away. I wanted to, Ethan. Really. The way she beat you the other day. I didn’t want-”

“It’s all right, Diver.” Ethan released him and took a step back. The shipment-wine and rum. That was what had taken Derne into the streets the night of the riots, the night Jennifer followed him. Ethan probably should have reasoned it out. “I’m sorry,” he said after some time. “I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s all right,” Diver said in a low voice. He looked past Ethan. “At least it is with me.”

Ethan turned. Kannice stood nearby, her hands on her hips, a cloth draped over her shoulder.

“Everything all right here?” she asked, her gaze fixed on Ethan, a hard look in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said.

He righted the table and picked up Diver’s tankard. Kannice squatted down beside him and began to mop up the spilled ale with her cloth.

“I can do that,” he told her.

“I’ve got it,” she said, the words clipped.

“I’m sorry, Kannice. I know how you hate this sort of thing.”

She nodded, but said nothing more.

Ethan straightened and watched as she finished cleaning up his mess. Diver held himself still, his lips pursed, steadfastly avoiding Ethan’s gaze.

When at last Kannice stood up again, Ethan said, “I owe apologies to both of you.”

Diver and Kannice shared a brief look.

“I think we’ll both be glad when you’re done with this job,” Kannice said.

“I am.”

They stared at him.

“You know who killed her?” Kannice asked.

“Peter Darrow.”

“Darrow?” Diver repeated. “The lawyer? He’s a conjurer?”

“Was. He’s dead.”

Kannice paled. “Did you…?”

“I had help.”

Diver picked up his chair, set it down properly, and sat. “I want to hear all about this.”

Kannice grinned sheepishly. “Actually, I do, too.” She held up three fingers for Kelf. Ales all around. She and Ethan sat, and Ethan began to relate all that had happened to him in the last day and a half.

It was a late night, made even later when, after Diver left, Kannice led Ethan up to her room above the tavern. There she gently removed his torn, battle-stained clothes, undressed herself, and made love to him.

Ethan slept away much of the morning and still woke sore and tired. Kannice had risen early, kissed him, and gone down to the tavern. When at last he dressed and joined her there, she greeted him with a big smile.

“Are you hungry?”

He shook his head. “Actually, no.”