Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

Ethan took his payment and pocketed it without bothering to count the coins.

  “Thank you, sir. Good day.”

  “Thank you, Mister Kaille. As you well know, I have no love for your kind. Witchery is a scourge on this province and has been for more than a century. But the sheriff is right: You’ve done us a service, and I’m grateful to you.”

  Ethan could think of nothing to say. He nodded once to the man and left the chamber, grateful to be done with Hutchinson, at least for a while, and grateful as well for the coins jangling in his pocket. Upon reaching the street, he paused. He owed a visit to Janna; she would want to know that Ramsey was dead. But all he wished to do was sit with Kannice. He walked back to the Dowsing Rod, taking care to avoid the barracks of the Twenty-ninth Regiment.

  Only when he entered the tavern, however, did he remember that he would have to face Kelf before he could see Kannice.

  Kelf stood at the bar, polishing the wood with a cloth. A few patrons sat at tables eating oysters and drinking flips, but the tavern was mostly empty. When the barman spotted Ethan, he dropped his gaze and rubbed at the wood with enough force to strip it of its finish. Ethan approached the bar.

  “We’re going to have to talk eventually,” he said.

  “I thought I told you to keep away from me,” Kelf said, running his words together in an angry jumble.

  “Aye, you did. But that’s not going to happen, and you know it. So we need to talk.”

  “I’ve nothin’ to say to you.”

  “Why, Kelf? Because I saved her life?”

  “Because you’re a witch!”

  The patrons looked their way. Ethan stared back at them, daring them to say something. Before long, they returned their attention to their flips.

  “Keep your voice down,” Ethan said, facing the barman once more.

  Kelf muttered an apology.

  “I’m a conjurer, not a witch, and I have been for as long as you’ve known me. In what way does this change me?”

  “I don’t know, but it does. It’s … it’s not natural.”

  Ethan chanced a smile. “Actually it is. I was born this way, as were my mother and both of my sisters.”

  Kelf did not respond.

  “I’m going to marry her, Kelf. I’ll be living here, helping the two of you run the Dowser. You and I have to be able to work together.”

  “Maybe she won’t want to keep me. She doesn’t need both of us.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Kelf looked past Ethan toward the stairs. Ethan turned. Kannice stood at the foot of the stairway, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She had more color today, though she still looked pale.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Ethan said.

  Kannice crossed to the bar, ignoring him for the moment. “The Dowsing Rod wouldn’t be the same without you, Kelf, whether or not Ethan is here.”

  The barman wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “But you have to accept that he’s a speller,” she went on, dropping her voice. “If you can’t do that, we have a problem.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?” Kelf asked. “Truly?”

  “No, it doesn’t. He’s a good man, as you well know. And thanks to his conjuring, I’m alive.”

  “He used blood.”

  “Aye, I did,” Ethan said. “I can also conjure with leaves, with fresh wood, with grass. For some simple spells I need no more than air or water. But to save Kannice’s life I needed to cast a powerful spell, and blood works best.”

  “Have you ever spelled me?”

  “No, I’ve never had cause. But if I needed to cast in order to save your life, I would.” He grinned. “There was a time though, some years ago, when I used a spell on the door, and in the morning you couldn’t get in.”

  “I remember that,” Kelf said, a smile creeping over his features. “I almost broke down the door.”

  “Aye, but I removed the spell before you did.”

  Too soon, Kelf appeared to remember what it was they were discussing. His smile faded. He eyed Ethan and then Kannice, frowning once more. “Wait. Did you say that you’re goin’ to marry her?”

  Ethan glanced her way. “I will if she’ll have me.”

  Kannice took his hand. “Aye, we’ll be married before long. And we want you there with us.”

  The barman ducked his head. “I’m happy for you both. But I need some time to get used to this—to get used to you, Ethan.”

  Kannice’s expression hardened. “What time—?”

  “That’s fine, Kelf,” Ethan said. “There’s no hurry. I plan to be around here for a long while.” He turned to Kannice, who still glared at Kelf. “You should be in bed.”

  “I’m done lying in bed,” she said, in a tone he had learned long ago not to challenge. “I want a bite to eat, and then I want to work in my kitchen.”

  Ethan and Kelf shared a grin. “I’ll fetch her some food,” Kelf said. “And then I’ll clear out of her way.”

  He lumbered into the kitchen.

  “You were more understanding than I would have been,” Kannice said, once she and Ethan were alone.

  “He’s trying,” Ethan said. “I can’t ask for more than that.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. “I’m glad to see you up and about, even if you should be in bed.”

  A coy grin touched her lips. “The next time I’m in bed, I won’t be alone.”

  “Well then, you should definitely be in bed.”

  “Later,” she said, laughing as she pulled away from him. “Right now, I want to cook. It’s been too long, and this place will be filling up soon enough.”

  Ethan said nothing, but gazed back at her, reliving for an instant the terror he’d known upon seeing her with a knife in her chest. How would he have gone on without her?

  “Ethan? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “More than fine. I’m glad you’re well enough to be making chowder again; I’ve no doubt Tom Langer will be, too.”

  She smiled, though her brow remained creased.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Her brow smoothed. “Good.”

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon of the next day, March 8, nearly every shop in the city closed, church bells began to peal, and a crowd of mourners that most agreed numbered more than ten thousand converged on King Street to honor the memories of Crispus Attucks, James Caldwell, Samuel Gray, and Samuel Maverick, the four men who died as a result of the shootings there.

  At least one of the other victims, a young Irish laborer named Patrick Carr, remained grievously wounded; few expected him to survive.

  Men and women came to the city from Roxbury, Charlestown, and other nearby communities; the resulting procession dwarfed that which accompanied Christopher Seider to his final resting place. Walking six abreast through the city streets, the mourners bore the coffins from King Street to the Liberty Tree and finally to the Granary Burying Ground.

  Though Ethan tried to remind himself that Ramsey’s spells had caused these deaths, he could not help but feel that he, too, was responsible in some small way. Had he discovered sooner the secret to warding his power from the captain’s influence, he might have saved these lives.

  He was flanked on the icy lanes by Kannice and Diver, Kelf and Deborah. Kannice held fast to his hand. Deborah supported Diver, who had insisted upon taking part in the procession despite Ethan’s and Deborah’s misgivings.

  It was as solemn and momentous an occasion as Ethan had ever witnessed. There were no incidents, no confrontations between mourners and soldiers. But it seemed to Ethan that he and the others participated not merely in a funeral, but in a demonstration of the growing might of Samuel Adams’s movement for liberty. The next time British soldiers take up arms against Boston’s citizenry, they seemed to say by their mere presence in the streets, this is what they will face.

  The honored dead were interred in a single vault, beside the grave of Chris Seider. After, Ethan, Kannice, and the others returned
to the Dowser and drank a solemn toast to the fallen men.

  “I’d like to drink a toast to Mister Kaille as well,” Deborah said, as they stood by the bar. “Were it not for him, Derrey would have been buried today, along with the rest.”

  Diver kept his eyes lowered, but nodded as she spoke. Kelf and Ethan shared a glance as the barman said, “Hear, hear,” along with the others.

  “Thank you, Deborah,” Ethan said. “But I did it out of selfishness. Diver owes me for more ales than I can count, and I have every intention of collecting.”

  Most of them laughed—even Diver managed a faint smile—but once more Ethan’s breath caught, this time at the thought of how close he had come to losing his dear friend.

  He was not a religious man, nor a vindictive one. But at that moment he hoped with all his heart that Nate Ramsey was burning in the fires of hell.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ethan left his room on Cooper’s Alley a few days later, bidding a fond farewell to Henry, and promising to visit the cooper whenever he had the opportunity. On March 18, the day after Samuel Adams arranged another massive funeral, this one for Patrick Carr, Ethan and Kannice were married in a humble ceremony before a magistrate at the Town House. Diver and Deborah were there as witnesses, as were Kelf, Henry, and even Janna, who made a point of telling anyone who would listen that she could have seen them wed years earlier if only Ethan had paid her for one of her love spells.

  In the days that followed, Ethan tried to make himself useful around the tavern. He certainly was not as fine a cook as Kannice, nor was he as strong as Kelf. But, it turned out, he had some skill with woodwork, and he soon took it upon himself to repair all the uneven tables and squeaky chairs in the great room, which was no small task.

  While working on one such chair in the middle of a warm, sunny afternoon later in the month, he heard the tavern door open and close, and then the soft scrape of boot leather on the wooden floor.

  “If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  Ethan stood and turned. “Good day, Sephira.”

  She had come alone, or perhaps she remembered that Kannice had ordered her toughs from the Dowser the one other time she came to the tavern, and so left Nap, Mariz, Afton, and Gordon in the street.

  She looked as lovely as always, her cheeks flushed, her dark curls shining.

  “I heard a rumor that you’ve given up thieftaking. Is it true?”

  “Aye,” Ethan said. “I’ve given up my room on Cooper’s Alley as well. I live here now. Kannice and I are married.”

  “Why, Ethan, how quaint.” Her smile was overly sweet. “You’ve been domesticated.”

  “Is there something I can help you with? Or did you come here just to mock me?”

  “The latter,” she said, strolling around the great room, eyeing the bar, the tables and chairs, the hearth. “I’m not sure I see the appeal. I suppose it’s a nice enough place; a bit on the shabby side, but charming nevertheless.” She halted not far from where he stood. “But this is not the life for a man like you.”

  “I disagree.” He said the words forcefully enough, but he found it difficult to meet her gaze.

  “No, you don’t. You know as well as I that you’ll be bored before long. You’ll miss the search for thieves, the fights in the lanes, the satisfaction of finishing a job.” She stepped closer. “You might even miss me.”

  He laughed. “You think I’ll miss being beaten to a bloody mess by your brutes? Having my life threatened time and again? Being hounded by Sheriff Greenleaf? You’re mad.”

  “So you say now. But mark my word: You’re not the type to be penned and saddled. You’ll be chafing at the halter before long, looking for any excuse to be back in the streets.”

  “I don’t think so,” came a voice from behind them.

  Sephira’s gaze shifted, and a cruel smile curved her lips. Turning, Ethan saw that Kannice had emerged from the kitchen and now stood behind the bar.

  “Congratulations, Missus Kaille,” Sephira said. “Having not been invited to the wedding, I wanted to come by and wish you both great happiness.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” Kannice said. “That’s not how it sounded.”

  Sephira’s smile deepened. Facing Ethan again, she said, “Though I’m loath to admit it, I know there may be times when I’m presented with jobs that lie beyond my … talents. On those occasions, I may seek you out.”

  “What about Mariz? You’ve been boasting for more than a year now that you can match me conjuring for conjuring. Why would you need me?”

  “Come now. We both know that Mariz is no thieftaker. I find it convenient having access to magick, but I wouldn’t trust him with an inquiry.”

  He knelt beside the chair he had been repairing. “I’m no longer a thieftaker. You’ll have to find help somewhere else.”

  “No, you won’t,” Kannice said. “If he can help you he will. For half of whatever fee you’re paid.”

  Sephira blinked, then laughed. “Oh, I like her, Ethan. I remember her as fiery, but who knew she could be so shrewd as well. She knows you better than you know yourself. Perhaps I was wrong before. She won’t allow you to grow bored. She’s too smart for that.”

  “Shouldn’t you be crawling back under your rock?” Kannice asked.

  Sephira stilled, putting Ethan in mind of a wolf. “Have a care, my dear. You may be clever, but no one speaks to me that way.”

  Ethan, who still carried his knife on his belt, drew it now and stood once more. “I think you should leave.”

  She smiled once more. “Very well. But I’m not through with you, and eventually I’ll lure you back into the lanes. You’ll see.” She cast one last look at Kannice, and sauntered out of the tavern.

  “You need to be more careful with her,” Ethan said, watching the door, his blade still in hand.

  “I can’t help it; she brings out the worst in me.”

  “Oh, I understand. Believe me. But you must never forget how dangerous she is.”

  “I know.” Kannice came out from behind the bar and joined Ethan where he stood. “Evil as she may be, she’s right, you know: You are going to get bored.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  She nodded. “Aye, you will. And that’s all right. If a job comes your way, and you wish to take it, you should.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me thieftaking anymore.”

  “I don’t. But more than that, I don’t want you to be unhappy, or to feel trapped. And if you say that you’re never going to work in the lanes again, that’s what will happen.”

  “So, I’m to be a tavernkeeper by day and a thieftaker by night?”

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. “You won’t be thieftaking every night,” she murmured. “I’ll see to that. But perhaps now and then.”

  He glanced toward the door before kissing her again. “Now and then,” he repeated, his breath stirring her hair. “I believe I can live with that.”

  Historical Note

  With each of the Thieftaker books, I have looked for ways to blend my fictional elements—Ethan’s life, his conjurings, his anachronistic profession, his loves and friends and rivals and enemies—with the historical details of 1760s and, now, 1770s Boston. Finding that balance between fact and fiction, and weaving the fantastic and historical together in a manner that leaves the boundary between the two all but invisible to my readers, has always been the greatest challenge of writing this series.

  And in none of the books was this challenge more formidable than in Dead Man’s Reach. The circumstances and progression of occurrences leading up to what has come to be known as the Boston Massacre were as complex as those surrounding any event in the pre-Revolutionary period. The seeds of this watershed tragedy were actually planted in 1768, when customs officials seized John Hancock’s ship Liberty, prompting riots and, eventually, the occupation of Boston by British troops. These events were chronicled, loosely
of course, in Thieves’ Quarry. Over the following eighteen months, the presence of soldiers in the city fed a growing tension that often threatened to spill over into bloodshed.

  In February 1770, the violence erupted at last. The shooting of young Christopher Seider by Ebenezer Richardson happened much as it is described in these pages, including the initial demonstrations in front of the shop of Theophilus Lillie. So did the grand funeral arranged by Samuel Adams and his fellow patriots, down to the complications created by the tremendous blizzard that struck New England just days before the demonstration.

  In the days and weeks that followed, conflicts between soldiers and Boston’s citizenry continued. The fights at Gray’s Rope Works followed the progression described in this novel, as did the moment-by-moment escalation of emotion on the night of March 5, 1770, when soldiers opened fire on the mob that had gathered near the Customs House on King Street.

  Therein lies the challenge I mentioned. Not only did I wish to blend my fictional narrative with historical events, but I also did my best to make my story follow the historical timeline as closely as possible. It wasn’t always easy, but it was a great deal of fun.

  Of course, Ethan’s blood feud with Nate Ramsey played no role in these events, and we have no evidence that magick did anything to ratchet up the emotions of those who gathered in Boston’s streets. But that is a discussion for another time and place.

  In piecing together the sequence of historical occurrences, in particular those surrounding the Seider shooting, the fights at Gray’s Rope Works, and the massacre itself, I relied on two books: Hiller B. Zobel’s The Boston Massacre (W. W. Norton, 1970) and Richard Archer’s As If an Enemy’s Country: The British Occupation of Boston and the Origins of Revolution (Oxford University Press, 2010).

  For more information on the scholarly and primary sources I have used for this and other Thieftaker books and stories—along with a good deal of other information—please visit my website: www.dbjackson-author.com.

  Acknowledgments

  As with the other Thieftaker novels, I owe a great debt to several people who have helped me get my facts (and fictions) straight. My thanks to Dr. John C. Willis, for his help with the history; Dr. Christopher M. McDonough, who translated more spells for me; Dr. Robert D. Hughes, who educated me on the arcana of Anglican Church matters; and Dr. Thomas Spacarelli, who translated a bit of Portuguese for me. Any mistakes that remain despite the best efforts of all these very smart people are entirely my own.