“Will he live?” the sailor asked.
“I don’t know.” Ethan was too weary to stand. He remained on his knees, his head bowed.
“What’s all this?”
He knew that voice too well. Greenleaf had come even sooner than he expected.
The sheriff shouldered his way through the crowd, only stopping when he stood directly over Ethan.
“Kaille. I should have known that I’d find you at the middle of it.” He looked around at the other faces. “Well, what happened here?”
For several seconds no one spoke. Then one of the onlookers pointed at the sleeping laborer and said, “That cove started it.” He pointed at the smaller laborer. “He started fighting with this one here. Then that one—the one you talked to—he stepped in and put this fellow down with one punch.”
“Kaille did that?” the sheriff said, his tone as doubtful as such a claim deserved. “And what about these two? Who cut you?” he asked the kneeling sailor.
“That same cove.”
“What happened to your friend?”
The sailor glanced at Ethan and then at his wounded companion, whose shirt no longer had any blood on it.
“That man hit him,” Ethan said before the sailor could answer. He stood and pointed at the laborer. “It was quite a blow. This man hasn’t moved since.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What is this all about, Kaille? Does it have anything to do with…” He looked at the others, appearing unsure of himself. “With those other incidents we’ve discussed?”
“Aye, it might. I can’t yet be certain.”
“Of course you can’t. But you’re at the center of it again, aren’t you? Or did Ramsey do this, too?” Greenleaf surveyed the wharf one last time, regarding the other men and Ethan with suspicion and disgust in equal measure. “You should get that one to a surgeon,” he said, waving a hand vaguely at the wounded sailor. “And the rest of you should get back to your jobs.” He leveled a finger at Ethan. “That includes you.”
Greenleaf turned smartly and left them. Ethan watched him go, feeling like he had cheated at cards and gotten away with it.
“The sheriff is right,” he said to the sailor with the gash on his arm. “Take your friend to a surgeon. I’ve done what I can for him, but he lost a lot of blood.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“I believe I should be thanking you.” He encompassed the others in his glance. “All of you.”
“I don’t usually hold with your kind,” said one man in the crowd. “But if you can save that lad’s life … well, your devilry can’t be all bad.”
Ethan wasn’t sure what to say. He nodded to the man.
“I wish I could do what you did to that cove’s knife,” another man said. “You’d be handy to have around in a fight.”
“My thanks, sir. I’m grateful to you for not telling the sheriff what you saw.”
“You won’t find a snitch on this wharf,” the first man said, his tone hardening. “Nor on any other. You work the waterfront, you keep your mouth shut.” He grinned. “Besides, there aren’t too many down here who care for Greenleaf, that is unless you count the customs boys.”
Others laughed at this, including Ethan.
“I should be going,” he said. “Again, thank you.”
“What’s your name?” the man asked before Ethan could walk away.
After what they had done for him, he couldn’t very well refuse to answer. “Ethan Kaille.”
“O’ course,” one of the older men said. “From the Ruby Blade.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a thieftaker, aren’t you?”
“I am.” He hesitated, wondering if he was about to give offense. “I know that none of you here would inform on someone, but I have to ask: Do you know a captain named Nate Ramsey?”
“I knew his father,” the older man said. “Haven’t see the son since summer.”
No one else said a word.
“Very well. Good day.”
Ethan returned to King Street and threaded his way through the South End lanes toward the Dowsing Rod. Uncle Reg walked beside him, his glow deepening in the shadows of the narrow streets.
“The spell that started the fight—it came from me, didn’t it? Like the spells I felt the night of the funeral?”
Reg nodded.
“I didn’t cast it.” But Ethan knew his denial rang hollow. Whatever his intention, his power had sparked violence. Again.
Chapter
TWELVE
Once back in the Dowser, Ethan found that he was reluctant to leave the tavern again. He hated admitting to himself that he was afraid, but he could not deny that he feared setting off more conflicts. At least in the tavern, sitting by himself at the rear of the great room, he did not risk encounters with armed soldiers or excitable mobs.
As with everything else he had experienced during the course of the past week, his apprehension turned his thoughts to Nate Ramsey. The captain knew him too well; he understood that Ethan would choose to hide himself rather than put others at risk. Which meant that Ethan was doing exactly what Ramsey wanted him to do.
If Ramsey was behind these conjurings.
Damn him! Ethan thought. Self-doubt, confusion, fear—these were the captain’s favored currencies. Ethan might not have proof of the man’s return to Boston, but if Ramsey was not responsible for the malign spells cast in recent days, he didn’t want to meet the conjurer who was. Knowing for certain that there were two men who could bedevil him so was almost more than Ethan thought he could bear.
Night fell, the Dowser filled up once more. Kannice had left Ethan to his thoughts throughout the afternoon, but now she approached his table with uncharacteristic diffidence.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.
“Aye. I’m fine.”
She frowned at that. “You’re not fine,” she said, sounding more like herself. “You’ve been sitting here for hours. Not that I mind, but I expected you to be down at the waterfront, or asking questions of Janna, or risking a beating by going to see Sephira Pryce and her conjurer.”
“Well, I would. But the food and ale here are too good. I can’t bring myself to leave.”
“Ethan,” she said, growling his name, an eyebrow cocked.
“Sit,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his own.
Her expression didn’t change, but she lowered herself into the chair.
“I was at the waterfront,” he said, dropping his voice. “While I was there I felt a spell, and it caused another fight. A man nearly died, and I had to conjure to protect myself. At least two dozen men saw me do it.”
“The first spell—your ghost says it came from you?”
“Aye. So I’m here because I fear that if I’m out on the street, I’ll do more harm than good. Probably I should go back to my room on Cooper’s Alley. That would be safest.”
She took his hand. “No, you should stay here.”
“Eventually, I’ll have to brave the world again. I’m not going to find the conjurer who’s responsible for these spells by sitting at this table, gorging myself on your fine chowders and the Kent pale.”
Their smiles were fleeting.
“But for now,” Ethan went on, “I don’t know what to do or where to go.”
“I understand. You know that you’re welcome here as long as you wish to stay. But…” She broke off, seeming to wince at what she intended to say.
“It’s all right, Kannice. Go on.”
“Don’t be angry with me for suggesting this, but maybe you should leave Boston. Ramsey, or whoever this is, can’t hurt you if you’re not here, and he can’t use you to hurt others.”
“He can hurt you. He can hurt Janna and Mariz, Diver and Henry. And someone has to defeat him. Janna and Mariz can’t do it without me, and I wouldn’t want them to try.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but if you’re just hiding from him…”<
br />
“I don’t intend to hide forever. I’m going to find him, but right now I don’t even know where to look. Still, perhaps I should leave, because in the meantime, I’m not making any money.”
“You know you don’t need money to stay here.”
“I do know it. Thank you. But I don’t feel right taking your food and ale. And I’ll owe rent to Henry before long.”
Kannice stood. “I’ll leave you. But know this: I was concerned for you; nothing more. You can stay here as long as you wish. I like having you here.”
They both smiled.
She started to walk away, but then stopped and faced him again. “I haven’t brought this up in some time, because I know that you don’t want to discuss it. But if you lived here, and worked here, even some of the time, you wouldn’t need to pay for food, and you wouldn’t owe any rent to Henry.”
It was a conversation they’d had many times before, though perhaps never under such dire circumstances.
“I’ll consider it,” he said.
Her smile returned. “You’re humoring me again.”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Fine. Do you want another ale?”
He peered into his tankard, which was nigh to empty. “Please.”
“I’ll send Kelf over.”
“Thank you. I’ll be here, trying not to start any fights.”
She laughed, but Ethan could see that as she turned away her brow was creased once more.
* * *
He didn’t leave the Dowser for much of the following day, which was the first of March. He could have searched the waterfront again, and several times he reached for his greatcoat, intending to do precisely that. But he had little confidence that he would find the Muirenn, and he remained convinced that the risks of venturing into the city streets were too great to justify leaving the tavern.
Late in the day, however, a soldier arrived at the Dowser bearing a message. Ethan assumed that it was from the lieutenant governor, expressing his impatience for tidings about the Seider shooting. But instead the missive came from Geoffrey Brower, the husband of Ethan’s sister, Bett. Brower, who worked as a customs official, offered little information in his note, but requested that Ethan come as soon as possible to the Royal Customs House on King Street.
Curious as to what Geoffrey could want of him, and glad to have some reason other than dark conjurings to venture out into the lanes, Ethan grabbed his greatcoat and strode toward the door, indicating to the soldier that he should lead the way.
“Who was it from?” Kannice asked him from behind the bar.
“My sister’s husband.”
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say. I’ll be back.”
Ethan and the regular stepped out into the cold, and followed Sudbury Street down to Queen. After being cooped up in the tavern for so long, Ethan was glad to be outside. The streets remained icy, and a cold wind off the harbor whistled through alleys and past shops. The sky was clear but had begun to darken, and the sun, low in the west, cast elongated shadows across the city.
As they passed Brattle Street and a cluster of soldiers, Ethan tensed, expecting at any moment to feel a spell. But no pulse of power came, and soon they were beyond the men.
Upon reaching the Customs House, a nondescript brick building to the east of the Town House, the soldier accompanied Ethan inside.
“Ah, here he is now.” Geoffrey Brower stood near an oaken desk at the back of the room onto which the door opened. He was tall and thin, with a steep forehead and hook nose that gave him an aspect of superciliousness that matched perfectly his personality. He wore a ditto suit of forest green, and a plaited, powdered wig.
A second man stood with him. He was several inches shorter than Geoffrey and narrow-shouldered, with a straight nose, dark eyes, and a grave expression. He, too, wore a silk suit and powdered wig. Ethan knew without asking who this was, and he regretted having left the Dowser.
“Ethan Kaille,” Geoffrey said, crossing the room on long strides, “I would like you to meet Mister Charles Paxton, of the Customs Board.”
Paxton offered a thin smile, but made no effort to approach Ethan or proffer a hand in greeting.
“It is my pleasure, sir,” Ethan said. “Geoffrey it’s … it’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Ethan. Mister Paxton has recently suffered a most grievous loss, and I have been telling him that you are one of Boston’s most skilled thieftakers.”
Of course. Paxton was infamous throughout all of Massachusetts as one of only two Boston-born commissioners on the Royal Customs Board. Boston’s Whigs considered him as much a villain as they did Francis Bernard, the former governor, and Andrew Oliver, Boston’s first Stamp Tax collector. Not surprisingly, therefore, he was a hero to the city’s Tories. More to the point, though, as a customs commissioner, he was also in a position to advance dear Geoffrey’s career. This was the only reason Brower would ever have admitted knowing Ethan, much less being related to him, albeit by marriage.
Ethan was tempted to leave without hearing another word. But as he had mentioned to Kannice the night before, he needed work. Paxton was a man of means; Ethan intended to charge the commissioner accordingly for his services.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss, sir,” he said. “What can you tell me about the stolen items?”
“Most of what was taken belongs to my wife. A pearl necklace, a brooch set with sapphires and diamonds, and a few baubles. There was also a pocket watch that once belonged to my father. It’s gold, but its value is more sentimental than pecuniary.” He cleared his throat. “To be honest, Mister Kaille, I had planned to speak of this matter with Sephira Pryce. I have nothing against you personally, but she enjoys a sterling reputation. I’ve agreed to speak with you first as a courtesy to Mister Brower.”
“Of course, sir, I understand. When were these items taken?”
“Only yesterday.” He paused, as if casting about for something else to say. “Geoffrey tells me that you solved the Berson murder a few years ago?”
“That’s right.”
“Ethan also found those responsible for the deaths aboard the Graystone,” Geoffrey added, sounding too eager.
“Yes, I had heard that. I take it you have had other successful inquiries aside from these.”
“I have, sir,” Ethan said. “But I’ve no interest in cataloging them for you.”
“Ethan!”
“Be quiet, Geoffrey.” Facing Paxton once more, Ethan said, “I have been a successful thieftaker in this city for the better part of ten years. I’m skilled at my trade, I’m honest, and I’m discreet. If you prefer Sephira Pryce, I understand. I’ll say nothing against her, though I will tell you that I’m sure either of us can recover the items you’ve lost. Hire me. Don’t hire me. The choice is yours.”
Paxton stared openmouthed; one might have thought Ethan had struck his face with a glove. Ethan was certain that the man would tell him to leave. For his part, Geoffrey appeared apoplectic. To Ethan’s great surprise, however—and no doubt Geoffrey’s as well—the commissioner began to laugh.
“Well played, Mister Kaille. Well played. Very well, what do you charge for your services?”
For any other man, Ethan would have done the work for five pounds total. But not Paxton.
“Seven pounds, sir. Two and ten now, and four and ten when I recover what you’ve lost.”
Paxton’s smile lingered, but the look in his eyes grew flinty. “You don’t lack for confidence, do you? Seven pounds is a good deal of money.”
“Sephira Pryce will demand more.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
He produced a purse from his pocket, opened it, and counted out two pounds and ten shillings. He handed the coins to Ethan and slipped the purse back into his coat. Ethan pocketed the money.
“What now?” Paxton asked. “I’ve been fortunate; this is the first time I’ve had to hire a man of your profession. How does this work?”
&nb
sp; “I take it these items were stolen from your home.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“None. The rear door was broken, my wife’s personal effects were strewn about her dressing chamber and treated most barbarously. Whoever did this might well have been part of the rabble seen so often abroad in our city’s streets. I put nothing past them.”
“In that case, sir, I would suggest that I meet you at your home first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll want to see the damage done to your home, as well as those jewels belonging to your wife that were not stolen. At the risk of inconveniencing you, I’ll also need a written description of each stolen item.”
“Of course.”
“You see, Mister Paxton?” Geoffrey said. “Ethan is quite thorough. I think you’ll be very pleased with his work.”
Paxton barely glanced his way. Ethan had the sense that Brower was doing little to ingratiate himself with the commissioner.
“I’ll look for you tomorrow morning, Mister Kaille.”
“Yes, sir. Until then.”
As Ethan turned to leave, a third man entered the main chamber from a small office at the rear of the building. He and the man recognized each other at the same time. Jonathan Grant, the patriot conjurer from the Green Dragon, froze at the sight of Ethan, his mouth agape, his eyes open so wide they made his expression comical.
“Ah, yes,” Geoffrey said. “Mister Grant, this is Ethan Kaille. Ethan, this is Mister Grant, one of our clerks.”
His tone was so dismissive, Ethan was surprised Grant didn’t round on him in indignation. But Grant did not seem able to tear his gaze from Ethan. There was panic in his youthful face, and an entreaty as well.
Ethan proffered a hand to the man. “Mister Grant, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“A-and yours,” the clerk managed, gripping Ethan’s hand for an instant.
“Grant, have you found those manifests yet?” Paxton asked.
“Most of them, sir.”
Dead Man's Reach Page 17
