D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

“What are you doing here? What sort of devilry did you use to escape my gaol?”

“No devilry at all. Colonel Dalrymple came for me at first light and took me to the Town House. Hutchinson has given me a day to find Gant’s killer.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Not at all,” Ethan said, his gaze flicking between the barrel of the pistol and the sheriff’s face. “It’s the truth. You have only to ask one of them.”

“Thomas Hutchinson-the lieutenant governor. Do you really expect me to believe that he let you go free?”

“It’s true. He threatened to have me hanged as a witch if I didn’t find Gant’s killer.” When Greenleaf neither responded nor lowered the weapon, Ethan added, “Dalrymple didn’t believe me at first when I told him that Hutchinson had granted my release. But I convinced him. He gave me back my blade. It’s on my belt right now.”

“So, the lieutenant governor sent you off to find the killer and thus save your skin, and you came here. Why? For revenge?”

“For help,” Ethan said. “To ask you, as I did yesterday, to let me see Gant’s body.”

That seemed to reach the man. He regarded Ethan through narrowed eyes, and an instant later lowered the hand holding his pistol. Ethan closed his eyes and swallowed. He had seen more firearms in the past few days than he cared to recall.

“I remember you asking me,” Greenleaf said. “Why are you so eager to see Gant?”

Ethan hesitated, unsure of how much he wished to reveal. “There are ways for me to determine what killed him,” he said, trying to keep his answer as vague as possible. “And perhaps even who.”

“More witchcraft,” the sheriff said, his voice flat.

“Several times now, you’ve accused me of magicking, and yet you’ve never seen me do anything of the kind, have you?”

“I have a keen memory, Kaille. I recall the tales of what transpired aboard the Ruby Blade. There was talk then of you consorting with the devil himself and using witchery to bend men to your will. And since the day you returned to Boston, that talk has continued to dog your every step. This isn’t rumor. You’re a witch. And you won’t convince me otherwise just because you’ve managed to confine your mischief to shadows and alleys beyond my sight.”

They glowered at each other, Greenleaf still holding his pistol, Ethan with the mullein concealed in his hand.

Aware of precious minutes ticking away, Ethan asked, “Will you allow me to see Gant?”

“I shouldn’t,” Greenleaf said, smirking. “You say Hutchinson gave you a day. If you fail, I’m rid of you for good.”

“If I fail, you’ll still have a conjurer roaming your city, one who’s not afraid to use his powers to murder.”

The sheriff’s smile melted away. “You can find him?”

“Maybe.”

“And what do I gain if you succeed?”

Ethan knew he should have expected this. “What do you want?” he asked, feeling too weary to play games with him.

“How much are the customs men paying you to do this work you were talking about yesterday?”

“Ten pounds.”

Greenleaf’s face fell. “Ten pounds? You’re doing all of this for ten pounds?”

“Remarkable, isn’t it?”

“You’re even more of a fool than I thought.”

“Take me to see Gant. I can’t offer you much money, but you don’t want the man’s killer getting away any more than I do.”

Greenleaf eyed him for several moments longer. Ethan could see that the sheriff still didn’t believe him, but he hoped that he would hear enough truth in what Ethan had said to know that he couldn’t risk refusing. “Yes, all right,” he said, surrender in the words.

He didn’t put his pistol away, but he pulled the door to his house shut, muttering to himself about stupid thieftakers and stingy agents of the Crown. Ethan did his best to keep his expression neutral. And while the sheriff wasn’t looking, he slipped the mullein leaves back into his pocket.

They walked up Common Street to the old Workhouse, a large two-story brick building where petty thieves and vagrants were housed. Greenleaf led Ethan through the house to a small back chamber. There on the dirt floor, in the center of the small room, was a bulky form covered with a dingy, stained sheet. Greenleaf halted just inside the narrow portal, but he gestured with an open hand at the shrouded body.

Ethan glanced at him before stepping past and pulling back the sheet.

Simon Gant’s mismatched eyes were still open, staring sightlessly at the low ceiling. His mouth was slack, his red hair unkempt, his face white as a winter moon. He still wore the clothes he had been wearing when Ethan chased him from the Manufactory-brown breeches, a stained white linen shirt, and a heavy black coat, threadbare in spots.

Ethan began by examining his head and neck and the upper part of his chest. All were unmarked. There was no blood on Gant’s clothing, but still Ethan struggled to pull the big man’s stiff arms free of his coat so that he might make a more thorough examination. After a few minutes of this he looked at Greenleaf, hoping that the sheriff would offer to help. But though he sensed that the sheriff had been watching his every move, Greenleaf refused to meet his gaze, and Ethan went back to working the dead man’s arms free on his own. When at last he had Gant’s limbs out of the coat, he looked for wounds on the man’s chest and back. Nothing.

“There’s no obvious sign of what killed him,” Ethan said.

“I could have told you that.”

Ethan ignored the remark. “Was there blood on the ground where he was found?”

“Not that I know of.”

He looked over the corpse one last time, making certain that he hadn’t missed anything. Standing once more, he walked back to where the sheriff stood.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m grateful to you for bringing me here.”

Greenleaf had been leaning against the wall, but now he straightened, alert and suspicious. “What? You mean you’re done already?”

“Yes,” Ethan said. “I’ve looked at him. I see no indication of what killed him. I had hoped I would but…” He shrugged and looked back at Gant.

“But what about your witchery?” the sheriff asked, looking both fearful and excited.

Ethan kept his expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool! You came here expecting to use your witchery in some manner. I know you did!”

Ethan stepped past him and walked out of the building. Greenleaf hurried after him.

“Kaille! Tell me what you were going to do to him!”

He shouldn’t have said a word, but Ethan found the man so tiresome that he couldn’t resist.

He halted and turned abruptly so that Greenleaf had to stop short to avoid walking into him. “Nothing with you there,” he said, dropping his voice. “I wouldn’t want anything to … happen to you.”

Greenleaf’s eyes went wide. “Happen to … What do you mean?” He licked his lips. “What could…? You mean it could … it could affect me?” He took a step backward.

“Not permanently,” Ethan said, resisting the urge to laugh. “At least probably not. But I didn’t wish to take the chance. These things can be unpredictable. Something might get out of hand and I wouldn’t even realize it until it was too late.”

“But this witchcraft-what was it going to do?”

Ethan shook his head and started away again. “It doesn’t matter. Good day, Sheriff.”

“Kaille!” Greenleaf shouted again. This time, though, Ethan didn’t halt. At least not until he had turned two corners and was certain that the sheriff couldn’t see him anymore. At that point, he made sure that no one else was watching and ducked onto a small lane near King’s Chapel. He drew his knife and cut himself.