Thieftaker tc-1

by D. B. Jackson

  It probably didn’t help that in order to conjure, a speller had to bridge the gap between the living world and the domain of the dead, the ethereal realm of spirit and soul. That was why a speller needed a guide in the form of a ghost; it was why Ethan needed Uncle Reg.

  Accusations of witchcraft often began within a family or a small circle of friends, and Ethan wondered if those who made the accusations were people like Bett, who themselves had forsworn conjuring, but saw those they loved, or were supposed to love, casting spells and communing with ghosts. Whatever the source of such accusations, he felt certain that even in Boston, even in 1765, a man such as himself, who was known to have conjured-who bore scars that proved as much-lived in constant danger of being accused, tried, and executed.

  Ethan trusted Pell as much as a conjurer could ever trust a minister, but he felt little more at ease in the company of Stephen Greenleaf than he had when Sephira’s toughs had him trapped. The sheriff had yet to produce a gun, but Ethan did not doubt that he carried one.

  “Twice in as many days, Mister Kaille,” he said at last. “This time it seems that I’ll be taking you into custody.”

  Pell had been standing in the same spot, watching Sephira as she followed her men down the lane. Upon hearing what Greenleaf said, though, he strode over to Ethan. Uncle Reg started to fade as the minister approached, casting one last glance Ethan’s way.

  “We’ll be taking him to King’s Chapel, Sheriff,” Pell said.

  Ethan could tell that he was trying to sound authoritative, but Greenleaf showed no sign of being impressed.

  “I don’t work for you or the Reverend Caner, Mister Pell,” he said. “If Mister Kaille has broken laws in this county, it falls to me to see that he’s punished.”

  “I was defending myself against Sephira Pryce and her men,” Ethan said. “They outnumbered me twelve to one! And you’re worried about me breaking the law?”

  “Miss Pryce’s reputation is unimpeachable,” Greenleaf said, raising his chin. Ethan noticed that the sheriff had yet to come close to where Ethan stood. “Mister Pell says that you used… witchcraft against them. Is this true?”

  “No,” Ethan told him, his eyes meeting the sheriff’s. “I don’t engage in witchcraft.”

  This was true in the strictest sense. Conjurers weren’t witches. Like most spellers, Ethan believed that witches were the stuff of legend-an imagined threat dreamt up by overzealous ministers. Conjurers were as real as the flames he had just summoned.

  Greenleaf didn’t seem to know what to make of Ethan’s denial, but he continued to keep his distance.

  “Are you hurt?” Pell asked. His gaze fell to Ethan’s bloody shoulder. “Is that a knife wound?”

  “A bullet wound, actually. What are you doing here?”

  Pell glanced quickly at the sheriff and swallowed. “Arresting you, as ordered by the Reverend Henry Caner of King’s Chapel, Boston. We’re to take you back to the church.”

  Greenleaf shook his head. “As I’ve already told you, I don’t answer to Mister Caner.”

  “We all answer to the Lord, Sheriff,” Pell said. “Or do you deny His authority as well?”

  The sheriff opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut again. The sky had dimmed almost to black, but Ethan could see that his cheeks burned red.

  “Mister Kaille,” Pell said, turning to face him. “May I have your blade please?”

  Ethan hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Even without his blade, there was enough blood on his clothes for a conjuring. He handed the knife to his friend.

  “Very good,” Pell said, slipping it into a pocket within his robe. “As long as you cooperate, there’ll be no need for us to use force. At the first sign of resistance, we’ll have no choice but to resort to harsher means of controlling you. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll see to your wounds when we reach the church. Then you’ll be apprised of the charges against you.”

  “All right.”

  “Lead the way, Sheriff,” Pell said to Greenleaf.

  It was cleverly done. The sheriff couldn’t object to being offered the lead, and this way Ethan and Pell could walk together and keep an eye on the man.

  A small frown wrinkled Greenleaf’s brow, but a moment later, he started leading them back toward the chapel. Ethan and the minister followed him up the deserted lane, onto Hollis Street, and then onto Clough. They skirted the edge of the Common, following a narrow country lane toward the Granary and King’s Chapel. Pell said nothing, and Ethan thought it best to follow his example.

  At this hour the lanes of Boston were far less crowded than when Sephira’s men had forced him into their carriage. Still, the few people who were abroad stared at him as the sheriff marched him past. A few gave him a second, closer look.

  Ethan’s side ached when he inhaled, his head hurt from where Sephira’s man had kicked him, and his shoulder throbbed. He had been bloodied and beaten more in the past few days than at any time since the beatings he had been given upon arriving at the plantation in Barbados so many years ago. It hadn’t escaped him that every time he learned something new, something that moved him closer to discovering the identity of Jennifer Berson’s killer, Sephira showed up to threaten him, or that ghostly little girl confronted him in the streets around his home. He knew this was no mere coincidence.

  Before long they reached the chapel grounds. They entered the yard through the gate on Treamount Street, and Pell stepped past Greenleaf, leading the sheriff and Ethan up the steps and into the sanctuary. The minister indicated that Ethan should sit in one of the pews.

  “I’ll stay with Kaille, Mister Pell,” the sheriff said. “You can inform the rector that we’re here.”

  “Actually, Sheriff, I prefer to remain here with Mister Kaille. Mister Caner can be found at his home across the burying ground. Would you be so kind as to tell him what’s happened.”

  Greenleaf’s frown was more pronounced this time. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure that would be wise. If Kaille tries to escape you won’t be able to stop him.”

  A look of annoyance crossed Pell’s face. “Of course. You’re right, Sheriff.” He cast an uncertain look Ethan’s way, but then left the chapel.

  For several moments neither Ethan nor the sheriff said a word. Greenleaf watched him, though, his pale eyes narrowed.

  “If you’re not a witch where did those flames come from?” he asked at last.

  Ethan kept his eyes trained on the chapel floor. “Don’t you think Sephira is capable of lighting a fire?”

  “Of course, but why would she?”

  “You should ask her.”

  Greenleaf came closer, so that he loomed over Ethan. “I’m asking you.”

  Ethan looked up at him serenely. “You might wish to consider, Sheriff, that if I am a witch, and I have all this blood on my clothes, I can reduce you to a pile of ash with little more than a thought.”

  “But… but you said…”

  “I know exactly what I said. I also know that you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now?”

  Before the sheriff could answer, the chapel door opened again and Pell entered. “Mister Caner will join us shortly,” he said. He looked from Greenleaf to Ethan, a question in his eyes.

  Ethan gave a small shake of his head. Greenleaf moved away again.

  Pell came over to stand by Ethan, as if protecting him. Silence descended on the chapel once more, save for the patter of rain on the sanctuary windows.

  “Does the bullet wound hurt much?” the minister asked after some time, his voice low.

  Ethan kept his gaze fixed on the sheriff. “It still hurts, yes,” he said in a whisper.

  “There’s a welt on your temple, too.”

  “One of Sephira Pryce’s men kicked me there, and in the side. I may have a broken rib.” He glanced up at the minister. “Again.”

  Pell’s eyes danced with mischief. “I’m beginning to think that you’re not as good at thieftaki
ng as I first thought.”

  Any other time, Ethan would have laughed. But they were waiting for Caner. Pell might have trusted Caner to help them with this pretense, but Ethan had his doubts. The rector hated him. Regardless of any friendship Ethan and Pell had built these last few days, Caner might well see in this night’s events the perfect opportunity to rid himself and his church of what he saw as a dark threat.

  Seconds later, the door to the chapel opened once more, and Caner entered the building.

  “It will be all right,” Pell mouthed.

  Ethan merely shook his head.

  The rector strode down the central aisle of the sanctuary to where Pell waited for him. With some effort, Ethan stood. Caner looked Ethan over, his eyes lingering on the welt on his head and the bloody hole in his coat. Then he turned to Greenleaf.

  “What is all this, Sheriff? Why have you brought this man into my chapel?”

  Greenleaf blinked. “Mister Pell didn’t tell you?”

  “I’m not speaking to Mister Pell, am I?” the rector said. “I asked you a question. What is this man doing here?”

  “We… we found him with Miss Pryce. He was… he was standing at the center of a ring of flame that I believe he started with some kind of… witchcraft. And two of Miss Pryce’s men had been wounded. One had been burned. I believe the other had broken bones in both legs. I expect those injuries also were the result of some devilry.” He turned to Pell, looking for help. “Don’t you agree, Mister Pell?”

  “He’s wounded, too,” the rector said, before Pell could respond. “Did you notice that?”

  Greenleaf shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well… um… yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Do you believe that those injuries also came from witchcraft?”

  “No, Reverend, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because one of Miss Pryce’s men had a pistol that might have been used to shoot his arm.”

  “I see,” Caner said. “And what about that bruise on his head?”

  “I don’t know how he got that, Mister Caner,” Greenleaf answered. “I suppose one of Pryce’s men could have done that, too.”

  “Did you actually see this man cast any sort of… spell?”

  The sheriff rubbed a hand over his mouth. “No, Reverend, sir. But Miss Pryce said-”

  “They were fighting-this man, and Miss Pryce’s men. Is that not so?” Caner’s expression was severe.

  “Well, yes, it is. But-”

  “I understand that Miss Pryce enjoys some renown in this city, but for all she does on behalf of the people of Boston, we must remember that she is a creature of the streets, just as Mister Kaille is. Did it never occur to you that she might have made the accusations she did to bring injury to an enemy?”

  “Well-”

  Caner regarded Ethan dismissively. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “But, the fires-” Greenleaf began.

  “The fires must have been set by Pryce’s men,” Pell said. “As you say, Sheriff, we found Mister Kaille standing in the center of the ring, and Miss Pryce’s men were all around him. It retrospect it seems that he was the one most at risk from those flames.”

  The sheriff gaped at Pell. “But you said that he-”

  “I’m afraid I might have been mistaken,” the young minister said. “My apologies.”

  Caner laid a hand on Pell’s shoulder and offered an indulgent smile. “Mister Pell is new to the ministry and is still subject to some of the foibles of youth. I’m sure you understand.”

  Greenleaf straightened and glowered at Caner and the minister. “I think I do, Mister Caner,” he said pointedly. He eyed Ethan again.

  “You did all that you could under the circumstances,” Caner told him. “You have my deepest gratitude.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” the sheriff said. The rector’s words were a clear dismissal. He regarded Ethan once more. “I’m sure our paths will cross again, Kaille. I, for one, will be looking forward to it.” He nodded to Pell, cast one last dark look Ethan’s way, and left the chapel.

  Even after the door closed, Ethan waited several moments before asking Caner, “Why would you do that?”

  The rector shrugged, opened his hands. “I saw you taken. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have thought to intervene. A dispute between two thieftakers is no concern of the Church. But in this case, I thought to make an exception. Not for your sake, but for that of Abner and Catherine Berson.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m in your debt.”

  “A debt you can repay by renouncing witchery, turning to God, and vowing never to let the words of a conjuring pass your lips again.”

  Ethan stared at the man. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He glanced at Pell, whose eyes were trained on the floor, his lips pursed.

  At last, Ethan faced the rector once more. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mister Caner.”

  He expected the man to pursue the point. Instead, Caner’s mouth quirked to the side. “No, I don’t suppose you can. But the Lord wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t try.” He started toward the door of the chapel. “I won’t always be so tolerant, Mister Kaille. Don’t let me hear of you conjuring again.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Trevor, I expect you to retire shortly. You have your studies, and I won’t have you wandering the city at all hours.”

  “Yes, Mister Caner.” When the rector was gone, Pell beckoned to Ethan. “Come. We’ll get you to a surgeon.”

  “I can heal myself. I’ve already done a bit on the bullet wound.”

  Pell eyed him sternly, although the effect was muted somewhat by the youthfulness of his face. “I don’t care. Mister Caner and I just lied to Sheriff Greenleaf in order to keep him from imprisoning you as a witch! You will not heal yourself of these wounds!”

  Ethan didn’t argue. He gestured for the minister to lead the way. “How did you know where to find me?” he asked as they walked out of the chapel and onto Treamount.

  “Mister Caner said they had taken you toward the Neck,” Pell said. “So we started in that direction. When I heard the pistol, I thought it might be aimed at you, so we followed the sound of the report.”

  “Well,” Ethan said, “you saved my life. You and Mister Caner. I couldn’t have fought off Sephira and her men much longer.”

  “I thought you were doing pretty well.”

  “You mean aside from the bullet wound and the bruise and that dented rib I mentioned.”

  Pell grinned. “Well, yes, aside from all of that.”

  They had turned down Winter Street and were approaching Newbury Street, and the pasture lands.

  “Where are we going?” Ethan asked.

  “To the home of a doctor I know.”

  “A member of the congregation?”

  Pell shook his head. “Someone I met when I first came to Boston. I’d come from western Connecticut, and had been taken with a fever. Doctor Church got me well.”

  They stopped at a modest house with a gabled roof and a welcoming glow of candles shining from within. Pell knocked once, and after a short wait the door opened, revealing a tall man with stooped shoulders and long, powdered hair. His eyes were deep-set, his nose strong, his chin somewhat weak.

  “Mister Pell,” the man said, sounding genuinely surprised and pleased to see the minister.

  “Good evening, Doctor Church,” Pell said. “Forgive us for imposing on your time so late in the evening. I bring you a patient; a friend of mine who is in need of your skills.”

  The doctor looked at Ethan, his eyes lingering briefly on the bruise on Ethan’s temple and the bloodstains on his coat.

  “Of course,” the man said. He stepped aside and waved them into the house.

  The door opened onto a comfortable sitting room, illuminated by spermaceti candles and warmed by a fire in the hearth.

  “Doctor Benjamin Church,” Pell said, “may I introduce, Ethan Kaille. Ethan, Doctor Church.”

  Et
han and the doctor shook hands.

  “Who is it, Benjamin?” came a woman’s voice from another room.

  “A patient, Hannah,” the doctor called. “No need to trouble yourself.” He eyed Ethan again. “This way, gentlemen,” he said, and led them to a back room.

  He lit several candles, their glow building gradually to reveal a chamber that was far more austere than the previous one. Jars and bottles jostled for room atop of a cabinet against one wall. Next to it, a table held a number of steel surgical instruments. Ethan glanced at them before quickly looking away. Healing himself with conjurings was one thing; surgeons made him queasy.

  Dr. Church pulled a chair to the middle of the room. “Sit,” he said.

  Ethan did as he was told.

  “We’ll start with the shoulder,” the doctor said, stepping to a washbasin and scrubbing his hands. “I’d say that’s the worst of it.”

  Ethan cast a quick self-conscious look at Pell. He had already healed that wound, at least enough to stop the bleeding.

  Pell misunderstood. Or else he was as squeamish as Ethan. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the other room,” he said, a wan smile flitting across his pale features.

  “All right,” Church said absently. “Take off your coat if you can manage it,” he told Ethan. “Your waistcoat and shirt, too.”

  Reluctantly, Ethan peeled off the bloodstained coat, removed his waistcoat, and pulled his shirt over his head. The doctor stepped around him and leaned over to peer at the bullet wound, which was still badly discolored, despite Ethan’s spell. After a moment, he straightened again.

  “I see,” Church muttered. “I take it the bullet never actually entered your body.”

  “No, sir. I was fortunate.”

  “Indeed, you were. Still, it would have better if you had cleaned that wound before healing it.”

  Ethan stared at him, his mouth hanging open. He had expected questions, even accusations; not this blithe acceptance of his healing spell.

  “Come now,” the doctor said. “You can’t believe that you are the first of your kind I’ve encountered.”

  “No, sir,” Ethan said, recovering from his surprise. “I had to heal it when I did. I couldn’t afford to lose too much blood.”