by IGMS
"It's been a long time," Ethan said. "It's good to see you."
Reg didn't answer. In all the years Ethan had conjured, he had never known the ghost to say a word.
He felt power flow through his own hands into the cooper's shattered bones. After a few seconds, he felt the bones reforming, knitting themselves. The fractures were severe, and before he was done Ethan had to cast the spell a second time, drawing on the fresh blood that had appeared on the cooper's face after his first conjuring. But at last he sat back on his heels, wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a long breath. The cooper's hand would be sore for days, perhaps longer. It might continue to bother him occasionally in the years to come, in the cold and damp, and after long days at his workbench. But soon enough he would have use of it again.
The rest of the man's injuries were less serious; they would heal on their own. Ethan had just made up his mind to go back inside the tavern when the cooper let out a low groan. His swollen eyes fluttered open, though only to narrow slits.
The old man tried to get up, bracing himself on the cobblestones with his bad hand. Hissing sharply through his teeth, he collapsed back to the ground.
"Easy there, friend," Ethan said. "You won't be using that hand for a little while. And you won't be luring any lasses to your bed with that handsome face, either."
The cooper chuckled, winced.
"Who are you?" he asked, the words thick.
"Ethan Kaille. I work in the Silver Key. I saw what Hawker did to you; you're lucky to be alive."
The cooper stared at his hand and cautiously flexed his fingers. "I thought he'd broken it. I didn't think it would ever be any good again."
Ethan looked away. "I guess it wasn't as bad as you thought."
"Aye, I gueth," he said, the lisp more pronounced with his lip swollen.
"You might not be so lucky next time. You should go home."
The cooper stared at the tavern door. "I want my toolth back."
"You're not going to get them," Ethan said. "Look at me."
The cooper shifted his gaze to Ethan.
"You're not going to get them back. If you go in there again, Hawker will kill you. Go home, old man."
"Henry," the cooper said, sullen, eyes downcast.
"What?"
"My name's Henry Dall, and I'm not all that old. The tools cost me everything I had. Without them, I might as well give up my shop."
"You have old tools, right?"
Henry shrugged.
"Use them until you can afford another set of new ones. But don't go back in there. It's not worth it."
Ethan stood, extended a hand to the man. Henry eyed it for a moment, then grasped it with his good hand. Ethan pulled him to his feet.
"Goodnight, Henry Dall."
"Goodnight," Henry said, starting away. "Thank you."
Ethan watched him go before entering the tavern once more. Conversations had resumed. Everyone appeared content to drink, eat and exchange stories and news of the day. Hawker sat with his men, laughing about something. No one seemed to spare a thought for the cooper, except Simon and the girls, who asked if he was all right.
"Aye," Ethan told them, watching Hawker from the bar. "He'll be fine."
Hours later, after the tavern had closed and Ethan and the girls had wiped down the tables and chairs, Ethan retired to his alcove, bone weary.
But he didn't sleep well. He dreamed of the tavern and the beating he had witnessed, and though he managed to force himself awake, each time he dozed off again he fell back into the dream.
He arose with first light, and mopped and cleaned the tavern floors and tables before mid-morning. As he worked, his thoughts churned, as did his anger at what had been done to the cooper.
With his hand crushed, Henry would have been unable to make a living. Hawker had abandoned him to the street, maimed and bloody. He couldn't have cared less whether the cooper lived or died. And though Ethan had healed the man, his conjuring could only fix so much. How much better off was the old cooper, even with his hand healed, if he hadn't decent tools with which to ply his trade? The bruises and cuts and broken hand were only the most visible of the injuries Hawker and his men had inflicted; Hawker had crippled him simply by stealing from him. What was more, while Hawker had been incensed by Henry's accusations, the bastard had never denied them.
Ethan had no doubt that he was guilty. He was every bit the brute that Keyes was, that the plantation overseers had been. The difference was Ethan didn't depend on Hawker for a job or the roof over his head. And, as the healing spell he had cast the night before had reminded him, he wasn't a prisoner anymore.
The moment he finished cleaning, he left the Silver Key and walked to Cooper's Alley, a narrow lane just off the South End's waterfront, where he assumed he would find Henry Dall's shop. He wasn't disappointed. Halfway down the lane, he spotted a sign above one of the storefronts: "Dall's Barrels and Crates." Another sign on the door read "Open. Entr."
Ethan pushed the door open and walked in. Henry sat at the back of the shop beside a half-completed barrel, cradling his injured hand, gazing morosely at his empty workbench. Seeing Ethan, he stood and even took a step back. Ethan thought he might actually flee the shop. His face still looked terrible: dark bruises around his eyes, his lip swollen and scabbed.
He frowned, pointing a trembling finger Ethan's way. "You're the fella from latht night," he lisped. "Kaille, right?"
"Why are you so sure that it was Hawker who stole your tools?" Ethan asked, crossing the shop and stopping just in front of him. "This city is filled with thieves. What makes you think it was him?"
"I jutht know," the cooper said, though he sounded unsure of himself.
Ethan shook his head. "That's not good enough. I need more than that if I'm going to get your tools back."
Henry's eyes narrowed. "What? Get my-- Why would you even try? You a thieftaker?"
"Are there thieftakers here in Boston?"
"There's one. Her name is Pryce."
Ethan nodded at the name. Sephira Pryce. He had heard men in the tavern speak of her. "Have you gone to her about this?"
"I can't afford her," Henry said. "And she doesn't work for men like me. She works for wealthy men, influential men."
"Then I'll work for you," Ethan said. "I'm neither wealthy nor influential. But I'm good with a blade and with my fists, and I've half a brain. So to answer your question, yes, I'm a thieftaker."
"How much do you charge?"
"How much will you pay?"
Henry shrugged. "I can't offer you a lot. Fifteen shillings maybe, but I'll have to sell a few things."
"Done," Ethan said. "Now, why do you think it was Hawker?"
The cooper frowned again, sat back down on the stool by his workbench. Ethan sensed that events were moving a bit too fast for him.
"I saw him the day I bought the tools. He even said something to me about them -- about how fine they were. I don't remember what exactly, but he definitely noticed them. And for a long time people have been saying that he hires men to steal for him. That's how he makes money."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"Not far from here. He has a big brick house at the north end of Joliffe's Lane."
"All right. Then that's where I'll start."
"Do I need to pay you now?" the cooper asked, sounding wary.
"Do you have your tools back yet?"
"No."
"Then you don't pay me yet."
Henry grinned, then gingerly put a hand to his split lip.
"Tell me about the tools."
The cooper rattled off the items that had been stolen: a variety of planes, mallets, and knives, as well an adze, a borer, and a rounded shave for hollowing.
"What did all this cost you?" Ethan asked.
Henry shifted, clearly unnerved by the question. "More than fifteen shillings," he said, his voice low.
Ethan smiled. "That's all right. You shouldn't have to pay for them twice. Three pounds? More
?"
"Closer to five," Henry said.
"Good. Thank you."
"I bought them on credit," the cooper went on, as if he hadn't heard. "They're not even paid for yet."
"I'll find them," Ethan said. He crossed back to the shop entrance. "Take care of yourself, Henry," he said, pulling the door open. "I'll see you soon."
"All right." The cooper raised a hand, still seemingly perplexed by their conversation. "My thanks."
Ethan struck out westward on Milk Street toward Joliffe's Lane. As he drew near, he slipped into a narrow alley between two houses and pulled out his knife. He wasn't at all eager to conjure again, but he didn't see any other way to do what he had in mind. He pushed up his shirt sleeve revealing a forearm laced with old white scars -- reminders of a time when he had conjured freely. After a moment's hesitation, he cut himself and watched as blood welled from the wound.
"Velamentum ex cruore evocatum," he said softly. Concealment, conjured from blood.
Power hummed in the street and in the walls of the two houses. Any conjurers in the area would feel it, and might even guess at what kind of spell Ethan had cast. But conjurers were rare, and those who didn't possess the ability to conjure wouldn't be aware of the spell. Nor would they be able to see Uncle Reg, who winked into view beside him, glowing brightly in the shadows. The shade smiled fiercely and even nodded his approval. Ethan wondered if the ghost had missed these spells and his opportunities to tap into the power that dwelled in his realm. If he was honest with himself Ethan had to admit that he had missed them. It felt good to be casting again. As much as he had tried to deny it over the past fourteen years, conjuring was as much a part of him as his family name and the years he had spent at sea.
"Stay with me," Ethan said to the ghost. "I might need to cast again before long."
Reg's smile deepened.
Together they continued to Joliffe's Lane. With the spell in place, Ethan was invisible to the people around them, although he could still be heard if he made too much noise. He and Reg made their way slowly along the street, keeping out of the way of men and women who walked with grim purpose to and from the waterfront. Horse drawn carriages rattled past, unshod hooves clopping drily on the cobblestones.
Hawker Gray's house was easy enough to spot. As Henry had said, it was larger than its neighbors; it was also the only brick house at the north end of the lane.
Placing his feet carefully so as not to give himself away, Ethan walked into the small yard and circled the house until he found a side entrance. He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. He tried the door handle and found it locked.
He pulled some grass from the ground at his feet, and said "Discuti ex gramine evocatum." Shatter, conjured from grass. The spell hummed in the ground and a faint chime of breaking iron sounded from the lock. Ethan pulled the door open and flashed a quick grin at Uncle Reg.
The doorway led into the kitchen, which smelled of freshly cooked eggs and bacon, but appeared to be empty, at least for the moment. With Reg at his back, Ethan padded silently to the nearest door, listened for voices or movement. After a moment, he heard the clink of silverware on china. He backed away from that door and retraced his steps to a narrow stone stairway that led down to a cellar.
If Hawker kept stolen goods in the house, chances were that he wouldn't keep them in the living quarters. A cellar, on the other hand, might afford him ample space for storing items he hadn't yet sold.
Ethan eased his way down the stairs into the gloom. Once more, he pulled his knife from its sheath and cut his forearm. "Lux ex cruore evocatus," he whispered. Light, conjured from blood.
A golden light appeared above his head, illuminating the cellar and casting dark, shifting shadows on the far walls.
He was breathing hard; sweat dampened his brow and temples. In his youth, he had been able to cast many spells without tiring; not only was he older, he was also out of practice. He needed to find the stolen goods and return to the Key, where he could rest.
A wooden rack holding a collection of dusty wine bottles loomed on his right. To the left were several tables covered with tools and wood shavings and a few crude boxes and wooden bowls. None of the tools looked new, however. Forced to guess, Ethan would have said that Hawker or someone else in the household fancied himself a woodworker.
Footsteps overhead made him freeze. He heard voices as well, and thought he recognized Hawker as one of the speakers. Instinctively, he backed toward a corner. Before he reached it, though, he bumped one of the tables and knocked a wood bowl to the floor. It clattered loudly, rolled back and forth and came to rest against a table leg. The footsteps above him stopped; the voices went silent.
Then he heard the quick tread of several pairs of feet, all of them converging on the stairway.
Ethan slashed his arm again. "Fini lux ex cruore evocatus!" End light, conjured from blood!
The golden glow vanished, plunging the cellar into darkness. Ethan crept backwards more carefully this time, trying to reach the farthest corner of the cellar. Before he could get there, the three toughs from the tavern reached the bottom of the stairs. Two of them held flintlock pistols; the third had a knife. Hawker was just behind them, holding a lit candle.
"Out of my way," he said, pushing past his men.
He edged forward, raising the candle high and peering into the shadows. His gaze flicked over Ethan and Reg, but he gave no sign that he could see them through Ethan's spell.
After several moments, he lowered the candle and stooped to retrieve the fallen bowl.
"Probably a rat," he said. "Still, I want the three of you to go check the doors. I'll stay here and watch for our rodent."
The toughs grunted their agreement and started back up the stairs. Ethan and Reg exchanged looks.
Mere seconds later, one of the toughs came back down to the cellar.
"Th' lock on th' side door's been broke," he said.
Hawker grinned. "Well, isn't that interesting? Give me your gun, then go get the others. And bring oil lamps. I can't see a damn thing down here."
The brute handed his pistol to Hawker and hurried back up to the kitchen.
Hawker raised the candle again, the pistol held ready in his other hand. "If you come out now," he said, pitching his voice to carry, "I might not shoot you, though I'd be in my rights to do so."
Slowly, silently, Ethan dragged his blade over his arm, drawing fresh blood. There was a spell on which he had relied more than once in his youth . . . He smiled at the memory.
"Dormite," he whispered to himself. "Ex cruore evocatum." Slumber, conjured from blood.
Power pulsed in the stone floor of the basement, but Hawker didn't appear to notice. After a few seconds, his face went slack, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he pitched forward, smacking his forehead on the nearest table and then flopping onto the floor.
Footsteps overhead told Ethan that at least one of the toughs had heard. The man hurtled down the stairs, pistol in hand.
Ethan had no choice but to cut himself once more. Without hesitating, he cast another sleep spell. Moments later, the tough toppled to the floor, landing beside his boss. Ethan stepped over them and tiptoed up the stairs. He found the side door unguarded -- probably that had been the sleeping tough's post.
He slipped noiselessly from the house and hurried away, following the lanes back toward the Silver Key. He considered stopping to remove the concealment spell, but something occurred to him -- another spot he needed to search for Henry's tools and the rest of Hawker's plunder.
Reaching the tavern, he turned into the same alley in which he had found the unconscious cooper the night before and entered the Key through the back, near the kitchen.
The stairway leading down to the tavern cellar was broader than the stairway in Hawker's house, and the cellar itself was illuminated by candles. The bitter smell of spermaceti hung in the air. Cured meats, wine bottles, and casks of ale, whiskey, and rum crowded the cellar's main chamber. But in the cou
rse of working for Keyes, Ethan had noticed a door at the back of the room. He wove his way through the clutter and tried the door handle. Locked.
He pulled his knife out and made another cut on his arm, which was growing red and tender. Back when he was conjuring more frequently, that had never been a problem -- apparently this was another price he paid for renouncing his gift for so long.
He broke the lock with another shatter spell and pushed the door open. The faint candlelight from behind him spilled into the room and gleamed dully on what appeared to be a table laden with goods.
"Lux ex cruore evocatus." Light, conjured from blood.
His conjured glow filled this smaller room, revealing all that Ethan had expected to find at Hawker's house and more. Crystal glasses, shining new blades, and silver tableware; ivory-handled hair brushes and leather-bound books; a pair of dueling pistols with polished wooden stocks and several bottles of what appeared to be French wine. And, of course, a set of fine tools including blades, mallets, and planes.
Ethan didn't know where the other items had come from, but he was sure that the tools were Henry's. He bundled them up in a burlap sack that he found on the floor near the table, extinguished the light he had conjured, and climbed the stairs to the tavern.
When Ethan emerged from the kitchen, Keyes was at the bar, eating a plate of oysters.
"Where th' hell 'ave ya been?" the barkeep demanded, pushing his plate aside and standing.
"Around," Ethan said striding past him.
"There's work t' be done. Ya seem t' forget that, Kaille."
"I cleaned up before I left."
He swung the burlap sack onto one of the tables.
Keyes nodded toward it. "Wha's that?"
Ethan pulled out two of the planes and the curved shave. "You tell me," he said. "As far as I can tell these are the tools of a cooper. Why would they be in your cellar?"
The barman's face reddened. He pulled himself up to his full height and balled his fists. "Ya're meddlin' where ya shouldn'," he said, his voice low and hard. "A man can get himself killed doin' that."
Ethan stared back at him. "You watched Hawker's men beat that cooper within an inch of his life, and you didn't say a thing. You're the hireling of a thief and a brute, and that makes you no better than a thief yourself, and a cowardly one at that."
