D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

He saw no sign of Sephira or her toughs and by the time he reached Cooper’s Alley he had allowed himself to relax. Still, he decided to stop into Henry’s shop to check in on the old man and let him know that he was back.

Henry’s shop was small and old. It had been built by the cooper’s grandfather and had been passed to Henry’s father, and then to Henry. Despite its age, though, it was sturdy. It had survived winds and storms and more than a few fires. Ethan’s room was plain but comfortable. It wasn’t the only place he had lived since his return from the plantation in Barbados on which he had labored as a prisoner, but it was the only one that had felt even remotely like a home.

Henry liked Ethan because he paid his rent on time. Ethan liked Henry because he didn’t ask too many questions about Ethan’s work as a thieftaker, and because he didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. As far as the old cooper was concerned, Ethan was just like any other tenant, except with a somewhat more interesting profession.

A sign over Henry’s door read “Dall’s Barrels and Crates,” and a second on the worn oak door said simply, “Open Entr.” Ethan heard hammering as he approached the shop, and so knew before entering that the old cooper was all right. He sheathed his knife and stepped inside.

When he saw Ethan, Henry raised a hand in greeting, gave the hoop he was fitting over a barrel one last whack, and laid his cloth-covered hammer down on the workbench.

“Well met, Ethan!” the man said, his grin revealing a great gap where his front teeth should have been. Like his cooperage, Henry was small, but solid. His head barely came up to Ethan’s chin, but his arms were thick and corded with muscle. His bald head shone with sweat and his grizzled face was ruddy with the exertions of his labor. He removed the leather apron that had been draped over his work shirt and sat down on a low stool, flexing his right hand, which had been injured long ago, and which still grew stiff on cold days. “Buthy today,” he said with his usual lisp. He sounded weary.

“Busy is good, right?”

“I suppose. I could use a couple of days without busy.”

Ethan grinned. “Well, I’ll leave you alone. I just wanted to wish you a good morning.”

“You had a visitor,” Henry said, before Ethan could let himself out again.

Ethan felt the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end, and he had to resist the urge to reach for his blade. “When,” he asked, his voice tight.

“Just a little while ago.”

“One person, or several?”

“One. He went upstairs, stayed there for a minute or two, and then came back down. I saw him leave,” the cooper added, anticipating Ethan’s next question.

A few years ago, Sephira and her men had lain in wait for Ethan in his room, and Nigel and his friends had beaten Ethan to a bloody mess. Henry was in the shop at the time, and failed to notice their arrival. He had felt guilty about it ever since, and had gone out of his way to keep a closer eye on Ethan’s room.

“Big guy?” Ethan asked.

The cooper bobbed his head.

Some of the tension drained out of Ethan’s back and shoulders. At least it hadn’t been Spectacles.

“All right. Thank you, Henry.”

“You’re welcome. Take care of yourself.”

Ethan smiled and let himself out of the shop. He whistled for Shelly, who emerged from the shadows along the side of Henry’s shop and trotted over to him, her tail wagging and her tongue lolling from her mouth.

“Come on, Shelly,” he said. He drew his knife and walked around to the back of the shop.

The dog loped ahead of him, stopping at the base of the stairway and looking back at Ethan expectantly. She was hungry-no surprise there-but otherwise she gave no indication that she was alarmed. Ethan put the knife away again. If there had been someone in his room, Shelly would have known it.

“All right,” he said, patting her head. “How about a piece of cheese?”

She licked his hand.

Ethan climbed the stairs, slowing as he turned at the small landing halfway up and saw his door. A folded scrap of paper had been affixed to the doorframe with a small blade that jutted from the wood. He climbed the rest of the way, pried the knife out, and unfolded the paper.

The note, written in Sephira’s neat hand, read, “Don’t sleep. Don’t even blink. -S.”

Ethan exhaled slowly. It was a familiar warning, one that she had given him before. Unfortunately, Sephira’s threats seldom turned out to be idle.

He let himself into the room, retrieved a small piece of hard cheese, and went back out onto the landing at the top of the wooden stairway.

“Here you go, Shelly,” he said, and tossed the cheese down to her.

It landed on the cobblestones, bounced twice, and came to rest a couple of yards from where she stood. She bounded forward, sniffed the cheese, and was about to eat it when she suddenly stopped and looked back. She bared her teeth, her hackles rising, and turned, a deep growl rumbling in her throat.

Ethan grabbed his knife and pushed his sleeve up so that he could cut his forearm for a conjuring. But to his surprise, it wasn’t Sephira or Nigel or even Mariz who had come for him. Instead, he saw Geoffrey Brower in his green silk suit, and with him a young man Ethan didn’t recognize. This second man wore the dark blue and white uniform of a British naval officer.

“Ethan,” Geoffrey said, eyeing Shelly and even taking a step back. “Call off the dog! Please! We require a word with you!”

“It’s all right, Shelly,” Ethan called, although he wasn’t at all certain that he wanted anything to do with Geoffrey or his companion.

Shelly looked up at Ethan and gave a tentative wag of her tail. But then she eyed the two men and growled again. Her hackles were down though.

“She’ll leave you alone,” Ethan said. “You’re free to come up.” With that he stepped back into his room. He left the door open.

Moments later, he heard the two men ascending the stairs. He sat at the small table beside his bed, leaving a single chair for his visitors. Geoffrey and the other man soon reached the top of the stairway, but Geoffrey faltered at the door.

“Come in,” Ethan said. “There isn’t much room, but I don’t imagine you’ll be staying long.”

The two men exchanged a quick look. Geoffrey appeared to brace himself, as he might when preparing to step into rank waters. Then he entered the room. The naval officer followed. Brower looked paler than usual; his overlarge forehead was furrowed. He looked like he had spent the entire day frowning.

The officer was about as tall as Geoffrey, but he stood with his shoulders hunched. He was blandly handsome, with a square face and wide-set blue eyes, but he had a weak chin and had fixed an even weaker smile on his lips. He wore a powdered wig though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or thirty years old. The wig was long and accentuated the length of his face. It also seemed that his uniform didn’t fit him quite right, although Ethan couldn’t have said if it looked too small or too big. It was overly tight across the man’s middle, but it appeared too loose in the shoulders and chest.

“This is William Senhouse,” Geoffrey said, breaking a brief silence. “He is third lieutenant aboard the Launceston , the lead frigate of the fleet currently anchored in the harbor.” He indicated Ethan with an open hand, seeming to cringe at what he was about to say. “Lieutenant Senhouse, this is Ethan Kaille, my wife’s brother, and a thieftaker of some renown here in Boston.”

It might have been the nicest description of Ethan ever to pass Geoffrey’s lips.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Kaille,” said Senhouse, stepping forward and proffering his hand.