Thieftaker

by D. B. Jackson

  “Well, believe it, Ethan. I’ve tolerated you working in Boston because there are certain jobs I would rather not take on. The last thing I need is to fail a few important clients and ruin my reputation, all because some idiot conjurer has taken to thieving. In some small way I need you, so I let you work at the fringes of my trade. But make no mistake: You work in this city—you live and breathe in this city—because I allow it.”

  Sephira glanced past him again, which gave Ethan at least some warning that another blow was coming. Not that it helped much. One of Pryce’s men grabbed his chair from behind and pulled it out from under him, so that Ethan fell face-first to the floor. Two others lifted him and pinned his arms to his sides, and Yellow-hair resumed the beating. This time Sephira let them have their fun for what felt like an eternity before finally calling them off. Yellow-hair drove one last punch into Ethan’s side before the other two released him, leaving him to crumple to the floor.

  Every inch of Ethan’s body hurt, and he could feel blood flowing freely from his nose, his split lip, and more cuts on his face than he could count. He didn’t try to move, not even when he felt one of the men rifling through his pockets.

  “Here it is,” the man said.

  Ethan heard the ring of coins, and knew that they had found Berson’s money pouch.

  “Found these, too.”

  More coins. Those would have been the shillings Corbett had given to him.

  “Take it all,” Sephira said, standing over him. “You’ll make more, won’t you, Ethan?”

  “Sure,” Ethan said, the word coming out as a whisper. “What’s a few pounds between friends?”

  “Well said. You know, Ethan,” she went on, though Ethan just wished the woman would shut up and go away. “You need me as much as I need you. More really, though you don’t know it.”

  “Would you care to tell me why?”

  “Not really.”

  “You know, I don’t need my knife to cast,” Ethan said. “There’s blood on my face. I could speak a spell that would kill all four of you.”

  “Actually,” Sephira said, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Ethan heard something clatter on the floor next to his head. Opening his eyes, he saw his blade lying beside him.

  “But we both know that you’re not going to do that,” she went on. “It hasn’t been that long since you were a prisoner in Barbados, or wherever it was. And I imagine those memories fade rather slowly.”

  “Many people know I’m a conjurer.”

  “I’m sure. But it’s one thing for people to know that, or to hear rumors of a few small spells cast in the capture of a thief. It’s quite another for you to use your witchery to kill a person, especially someone like me. They’d have you in shackles faster than you could say ‘God save the king.’ Or maybe they’d just hang you. Don’t you agree?”

  Ethan gave no answer.

  Sephira laughed again. “Nothing to say? Very well, then. Good-bye, Ethan. I hope you find the girl’s killer. It would be unfortunate if you mucked it up.”

  He heard them leave, listened as they descended the creaking stairway. But even after they were gone, he simply lay there, his eyes closed, waiting for the pain to subside.

  Chapter

  SIX

  “Ethan? Ethan, y’all right?”

  The voice reached him from far away, as from a distant passing ship on still waters.

  “Ethan?”

  But as soon as he felt someone touch his shoulder, his hand shot up of its own volition and grabbed the speaker’s wrist. He heard a small gasp and, opening his eyes, saw poor Henry kneeling beside him, staring wide-eyed at Ethan’s hand. Ethan let go of him and let his arm fall back to his side.

  “Sorry, Henry,” he muttered.

  “Godth, Ethan!” the cooper lisped. “What happened to ya?”

  Ethan forced himself up off the floor into a sitting position. His head spun a bit, but less than he had feared it might. Still, his body ached as it hadn’t since his days laboring on the plantation; he wondered if Yellow-hair and his friends had broken a few of his ribs.

  “Sephira Pryce was here,” Ethan said. “She and her men were waiting for me.” He glanced at Henry. “You didn’t hear them earlier?”

  Henry looked hurt. “O’ course I didn’t. Ya think I’d let ya come up, knowin’ they was here?

  Ethan shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, Henry.”

  The cooper’s face colored. “I did hear some commotion and … well, I was afraid to come up. But then I heard them leave. That was all I heard, though. I swear it.”

  “I believe you. And it’s probably best that you waited. There’s no telling what they might have done to you.”

  “She was really here, eh?” the old man said, gazing wistfully at the door, as if he might still catch a glimpse of Sephira and her men. “Th’ Empress herself?”

  Ethan had to laugh, though it hurt to do so. “Aye. It’s my own fault. I saw one of them coming up behind me on the stairs. I should have realized that he wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Wha’ does Sephira want with you?”

  “New job I’m working on,” Ethan told him. “You really don’t want to know.” He probed his face gingerly with his fingers. Everything felt swollen. “I must look a mess.”

  “Ya do,” Henry said. “I’ll get some water and help ya get cleaned up.” He stood, hitting Ethan’s knife with his foot as he did. “They leave that?” he asked.

  Ethan shook his head. “It’s mine. It’s pretty much the only thing they didn’t take.”

  Henry glanced around the room. “They took stuff?”

  “Just my money. Good thing I paid you before coming up here.”

  Henry grimaced sympathetically, but he didn’t offer to give Ethan back any of the rent money. He left the room, still looking around, perhaps, Ethan thought, hoping that he might spot something that Sephira had left behind. Ethan thought it likely that nothing he had done before had impressed the old man as much as getting thrashed by Sephira Pryce’s men.

  While Henry was gone he gently probed his ribs with his hands, trying to decide if any were broken. It felt like at least one of them was, but Henry entered the room again before he could cut himself and cast a healing spell. For all their years of friendship the old man didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. Or if he did, he acted as though he assumed Ethan didn’t cast anymore, for he never mentioned spellmaking or “witchcraft” in front of Ethan.

  Henry had brought a bucket of cold water, several pieces of clean cloth, and a bottle of what Ethan guessed was rum. He helped Ethan climb into the chair and then began to clean the wounds on his face. The old cooper was surprisingly gentle and deft, though he worked slowly. It wasn’t long before the cloths were stained red with blood. Henry continually wrung them out into the bucket, and soon the water had shaded toward pink.

  “Lot o’ blood,” the cooper said after a lengthy silence.

  “I was noticing that. I think I’m glad I don’t have a looking glass.”

  “I have one,” Henry told him. “I can get it if you like. Ya don’t look so bad. Probably feels worse than it looks.”

  “Aye, probably. My thanks, Henry.”

  The cooper finished cleaning him up, and then opened the rum and poured a bit onto a clean cloth.

  “Is that necessary?” Ethan asked.

  Henry shrugged. “They say i’ keeps away infection.”

  “I’m going to smell like a distillery. People will think I’ve been drinking.”

  “I’d drink if I looked like you do,” Henry said, cackling.

  Ethan frowned, but then gestured for the cooper to use the rum.

  Henry leaned forward and began applying the soaked cloth to Ethan’s various cuts.

  Ethan spent the next several moments inhaling sharply through his teeth again and again. “Damn!” he said after the sixth or seventh time. “Do you have to use that much?”

  The cooper glanced doubtfully
at the bottle. “I didn’t think I was using a lot.”

  Ethan closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “I’m sure you weren’t. Just … keep doing what you were doing. I’ll keep my mouth—” He winced again as Henry touched the spirit-soaked cloth to another spot on his temple. “—closed.”

  Henry grimaced again. “Ya want me t’ stop?”

  Ethan stared at him briefly before picking up the bottle, pulling out the cork, and gulping down a mouthful. It burned, but it tasted good. “Don’t stop.”

  The cooper nodded his approval, a toothless grin on his face, and went back to work.

  When at last Henry had finished, Ethan had to admit that he felt somewhat better. He stood stiffly, and began to pull off his waistcoat and shirt.

  “Ya should rest,” the cooper said.

  “I can’t. I have to pay a visit to Beacon Street.”

  “Beacon Street!” Henry repeated. “Who d’ya know there?”

  “I have a meeting with Abner Berson.”

  The cooper’s mouth dropped open and he shook his head. “Pryce and Berson in one day. Ya’re movin’ up in the world, Ethan.”

  Ethan didn’t say anything. It probably would have amazed Henry to see the house in which Ethan had grown up. His father had taken great pride in being able to afford a home within a block of the Bristol Cathedral. Ellis Kaille would have been ashamed to see his son living in this single room on Cooper’s Alley.

  “My thanks again, Henry. I’m in your debt.”

  The old man gathered his bucket, cloths, and rum, and paused at the door. “Not at all. Have a care though. I don’ want t’ have t’ do this again. Never liked blood o’ any kind.”

  Ethan watched him go. Once Henry had descended the wooden stairs, Ethan sat again and checked his ribs, determining that only the one was broken. Taking a long breath to prepare himself, he pushed the broken bone back in place, gasping in agony, and fighting not to be sick. When he had set the bone as best he could, he pulled out his knife, cut his forearm, smeared some blood on his side, and said, “Remedium ex cruore evocatum.” Healing, conjured from blood.

  Uncle Reg appeared, took one look at Ethan’s face, and began to laugh silently. If Ethan could have punched the ghost in the nose, he would have. Despite the specter’s mockery, the effect of Ethan’s spell was immediate. It felt as though cool water were flowing over the bone and surrounding flesh. He hadn’t realized how much it hurt each time he took a breath until he could inhale without pain.

  Ethan wished he could do more for his wounds, but Henry had seen the bruises on his face and would notice if he healed too quickly. He would have to be satisfied with mending the broken bone. Healing spells were taxing, and after the beating he had taken, he would have liked nothing better than to take Henry’s advice and rest. But one didn’t keep a man like Abner Berson waiting, and Sephira’s visit had served only to make Ethan more determined to begin his inquiry. He changed into clean clothes and left his room. One of his eyes had swollen shut, making it difficult to see, and his split lip would make speaking a chore.

  He had lost track of the time, but the sun was still up, angling sharply across the shops and lanes of Boston. The day had grown warm, and a steady wind blew in off the harbor, carrying the scent of rain.

  He walked back up Water Street and School Street, passing King’s Chapel once more, and also the Granary Burying Ground, before turning onto Beacon Street. The night before, while waiting for Ezra Corbett in the merchant’s sitting room, Ethan had remarked to himself how much nicer Corbett’s home was than his own. Now, walking past the mansions at the base of Beacon Hill, he wondered if Corbett felt the same way when he came to call on men like Berson.

  Referring to these manors as houses failed to do them justice. They might have been situated within the bounds of the city, but they resembled the country estates of Braintree, Milton, and Roxbury as much as they did even the finer houses of the North End. Beacon Street itself was clean and pleasant, offering fine views of the hill. There were no beggars asking for coin or miscreants lurking in alleys. Each house had its own stone wall and iron gate, and the grounds surrounding the homes were neat and well tended.

  Abner Berson’s home was no more grand than those around it, and it was modest when compared with the Hancock estate farther down the road. But still it was impressive. Constructed of white marble, it was solid and square and stood three stories high. A wide flagstone drive led from the street to the door. Before it, broad marble steps led to an ornate portico supported by proud Corinthian columns. A carriage waited by the house, a large chestnut cart horse standing before it with its head lowered, a grizzled driver seated behind the beast. He eyed Ethan with unconcealed curiosity as the thieftaker approached.

  “Wha’ happ’n’d t’ you, mate?” the man asked. “I once hit a felleh with my cart—looked a bit like you do now.”

  Ethan chuckled. “It wasn’t a cart,” he said, and climbed the steps to the front entrance.

  The servant who answered his knock was a white-haired African man, smartly dressed in black linen. He regarded Ethan dubiously, even after the thieftaker told the man his name.

  “Mister Berson is expecting me,” Ethan said. “If you don’t believe me, you can find the man with the silver hair and Scottish accent who hired me earlier today.”

  This convinced the servant, who waved Ethan into the house even as he continued to cast disapproving looks his way.

  “Wait here,” the man said, and walked off, leaving Ethan just inside the door, in a spacious tiled entrance hall with a high ceiling. Brilliantly colored tapestries covered the walls, and a large, round fixture that held no fewer than a dozen candles hung overhead. Ethan could hardly imagine how much work it took to light and extinguish the flames every night. Rather than smelling of spermaceti, though, the house was redolent of sweet scents: bayberry and beeswax.

  He could see into the next chamber, which was also huge. The floors in there were made of some dark, fine-grained wood, and the furniture was of better quality than anything he had seen in the Corbett house.

  No wonder Sephira didn’t want Ethan competing for her clientele.

  Curtains had been drawn across every window Ethan could see, and in the sitting room a cloth was draped over what he assumed was a looking glass. Even in the wealthiest households, mourning superstitions remained the same.

  The click of footsteps on tile and a brisk “Mister Kaille” made Ethan turn.

  Abner Berson was striding toward him, though he slowed upon seeing Ethan’s face. “God have mercy! What happened to you?”

  He forced a broad smile, which hurt, and walked to where Berson had halted, extending a hand. “A disagreement with a colleague. It’s nothing, sir.”

  Berson took his hand and shook it absently, but he continued to study Ethan’s face, frowning as if pained by what he saw. “You call this nothing?”

  Silently cursing Sephira, he said, “Not really, no. But I can’t do anything about it now, and you and I have more pressing and difficult matters to discuss.”

  “Aye,” Berson agreed soberly. “That we do.”

  He started toward the large sitting room, gesturing for Ethan to follow. They stepped through that chamber into a small study, the walls of which were lined with shelves holding more bound volumes than Ethan had ever seen in one place.

  “I collect them,” Berson said needlessly, watching Ethan as he scanned the shelves. There were volumes here by Rabelais and Cervantes, Butler and Newton, Hobbes and Locke.

  “Most come from England,” the merchant went on. “A few are from France, and some of the newer ones were produced here in Boston, by Edes and Gill. Though I must say that I don’t think much of the quality of their volumes. Do you read, Mister Kaille?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. There was a time when I read a lot.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  “I have less time for leisurely pursuits now than I did in my youth.” And less coin.

  Berson nod
ded, staring at the volumes. He was a portly man with a thick neck and a jowly face. His eyes were heavy-lidded; his nose was round and red. A few strands of coarse black hair stuck out from beneath a powdered wig of white curls. He wore a black silk suit and a white cravat.

  “William told you why I require your services?” he asked after some time, still avoiding Ethan’s gaze.

  The silver-haired man. “Yes, he did, sir. You, Missus Berson, and your younger daughter have my deepest sympathies.”

  “She was…” Berson stopped, then swallowed, his eyes misting. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “At a time like this, a stolen brooch may seem like a trifle, an extravagance. But…” He shook his head, his lips quivering.

  “I think I understand,” Ethan said. “I’ll need a description of the brooch.”

  “Of course. Jennifer’s girl can help you with that.”

  “I also have some questions for you, sir. If you can spare me the time. And if I may speak with Missus Berson—”

  “I think not, Mister Kaille,” Berson said. “I’ll tell you what I can. But my wife is troubled enough just now. And with you looking the way you do … I don’t think it would be good for her.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Berson sat in one of two large cushioned chairs before an empty hearth. He indicated with an open hand that Ethan should take the other.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ethan said, lowering himself carefully into the chair. “Please forgive me if some of my questions strike you as … indelicate. I need information, and where murder is concerned one can’t always mince words.”

  “Of course, Mister Kaille. Proceed.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to do your daughter harm?”

  Berson shook his head. “Not a soul.”

  “Did she have suitors, men she might have spurned?”

  “She’s had but one suitor for some time now. Cyrus Derne, the eldest son of Fergus Derne, of whom you might have heard.”

  Ethan had heard of the elder Derne. He was nearly as successful as Berson—another man Sephira would have wanted Ethan to avoid.

  “How long had Mister Derne and your daughter been acquainted?”