D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

Ethan pondered the question. “I don’t think the casting itself would have been that difficult,” he said, choosing his words with care. “But whoever cast it would have had to source the conjuring in a life.”

“You mean the sorcerer killed someone when he conjured? Like with the Jennifer Berson murder a few years ago?”

“Yes,” Ethan answered, although he was thinking not of the Berson girl, but of a kindly dog: Pitch, Shelly’s constant companion. Ethan had cast a spell sourced in the life of the poor creature in order to fight off the conjurer who murdered Jennifer Berson and thus save his own life. The memory of that casting had haunted him ever since. Aside from Kannice, he had told no one of what he had done that night. “He would have killed someone, or something,” he said. “It could have been an animal rather than a person and it still would have been a powerful casting.”

“But dark.”

“Aye. Very dark.”

“Do you think that this new conjurer did it?”

“I think it’s possible. He and Sephira have seemed unusually interested in the fleet, and it turns out that a former associate of Sephira’s came to Boston aboard the Graystone , but managed to get off before the spell was cast.”

“I see,” Pell said. “Well, tell me how I can help.”

Ethan kept his amusement to himself. Between Diver and Pell one might have thought that Ethan was putting together his own thieftaking empire, one to rival Sephira’s. He understood, of course. Both men were young and saw in Ethan’s work the excitement and adventure that they couldn’t find working the wharves or tending to the souls of the King’s Chapel congregation. As it happened, though, there was something Pell could do for him.

“I’m glad you asked, Mister Pell,” he told the young minister, drawing an eager smile from the man. “Within the next day or two, officers of the fleet or the occupying army will have to deal with the dead, and when they do they’ll need to inform the families of those soldiers who live here in Boston. I’d like you to get the names of any men whose families belong to your congregation.”

Pell’s face fell. “That’s all?”

Ethan considered this. “Well, if you think you can get the names of men who attended other churches that would be very helpful.”

“But even that…” He shook head, frowning once more. “Surely there’s something more that I can do. I mean, yes, of course I’ll do as you ask. But … Where are you going now?”

“First, I’m going to wash off and change into clothes that don’t smell of sweat and dead men. After that … well, I believe Henry Caner would say it’s best that you don’t know. He still thinks that my conjurings will lead you to Satan.”

“Ethan-”

“How many times has Mister Caner threatened to have me arrested, tried, and hanged as a witch?”

Pell looked down at the floor. “Several,” he muttered.

“And do you wish to see him follow through on that threat?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the day.”

Ethan chuckled. A reluctant smile crept across the minister’s face.

Pell crossed to the door. “I’ll leave you to wash,” he said. “If I may offer some advice, use plenty of soap.”

“Very funny.”

“Perfumed soap, if you have any.”

Ethan scowled. “Get out.”

“I’ll let you know what I can learn about the dead soldiers.”

“Thank you,” Ethan said. He watched the young minister leave.

Once Pell was gone, Ethan retrieved a pitcher from the basin in his room, took it down to the street and filled it with water from the pump near Henry’s shop. He didn’t wish to take the time necessary to heat it in his hearth, nor did he wish to invite more attention from Mariz and Sephira by casting. So upon returning to his room he stripped off his stale clothes and washed himself with water so cold it made his skin tingle. After drying himself, he put on clean breeches and a fresh shirt, waistcoat, and coat. He strapped on his blade, and as an afterthought tucked the pouch of mullein in his pocket. Satisfied that he was prepared for Mariz or whoever else he might meet, he left his room.

Upon walking around to the front of Henry’s shop, however, he found the old cooper standing in the street speaking with another man, who towered over him. This second man, imposing, with a bold hook nose and small pale eyes, Ethan recognized at once: Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf. Spotting Ethan, Henry pointed his way. Greenleaf turned, said something more to the cooper, and strode toward Ethan.

“How can I help you, Sheriff?” Ethan asked, halting where he was and resisting the urge to reach for his blade.

“You could do some of your witchery for me, so that I might put a noose around your neck and rid this city of you for good.”

“And failing that?” Ethan said.

“Hutchinson wants a word with you.”

The sheriff started walking northward toward the center of the city. Ethan had little choice but to follow.

Lieutenant Governor Thomas Hutchinson, chief justice of the province, was the one man in Boston with whom Ethan was even less eager to speak than Greenleaf. Their previous encounters, especially those that occurred back when Ethan was inquiring into the death of Abner Berson’s daughter, had been unpleasant to say the least. Hutchinson was a difficult man tasked with an onerous job: administrating a city and province whose citizens had grown increasingly resentful of their colonial masters.

“Do you know what he wants?” Ethan asked at length, as they made their way through Cornhill.

Greenleaf regarded him briefly but didn’t reply.

The Town House, where Hutchinson and other provincial officials had their offices, was one of the most impressive structures in the city. Constructed of red brick, it had a graceful steeple, fine statues of a lion and unicorn on either side of its gable, and elaborately carved facings around its famous clock. It had long been one of Ethan’s favorite buildings, despite the fact that most every time he entered it and ascended its marble stairway to the second floor, he found himself in some sort of trouble.

Greenleaf led him to the door of Hutchinson’s courtroom and knocked once. At a summons from within they both entered.

Ethan had first met Thomas Hutchinson three years earlier, also in this chamber. The night before their initial encounter, Hutchinson’s home had been destroyed by a mob of Stamp Act agitators. Hutchinson, a tall, slight man, who sat with his back straight and his shoulders thrust back, had not changed much in the intervening years. There were a few more lines on his high forehead and at the corners of his mouth, but otherwise he hadn’t conceded much to age. He had a long, prominent nose, and he wore a powdered wig of curls that framed his face, giving him a slightly feminine aspect. He was dressed in a black suit and white silk shirt and cravat, as he had been the last time they met in these chambers. That summer morning in 1765 it had been clear that the previous night had taken its toll on him. His large dark eyes had been bloodshot, his skin blotchy. He didn’t appear to be in much better spirits on this day.

“Mister Kaille,” he said. “It’s been some time.” He turned his gaze to Greenleaf. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

Greenleaf left them.

“Do you know why I’ve summoned you here?” the lieutenant governor asked.

“I have some idea, yes,” Ethan said. “I would imagine you wish to speak with me of the Graystone and her men.”

Hutchinson regarded him, his lips pursed a bit. “Yes, that’s right,” he said at last. “To be honest, I wish that we might have found some other manner in which to investigate this devilry. But I can see why Mister Brower recommended that we involve you, and I know as well why Governor Bernard agreed, despite his misgivings.”