Dead Man's Reach (16 page)

“Very well,” Adams said in a solemn voice. “Shall we return to the Dragon? I have a good deal of work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

They left the warden's office and descended the stairs once more. Before they reached the tavern's great room, Ethan whispered in Latin, “
Veni ad me.
”

Uncle Reg appeared beside him, gleaming like the moon in the dim light.

“Did you say something, Mister Kaille?” Adams asked.

“No, sir.”

Reg watched him as they emerged from the stairway, an avid look in his bright eyes.

I need to know if there are any conjurers here,
Ethan told him silently.
And if there are, I don't want them to know that I'm aware of their powers. Can you search the tavern without allowing yourself to be seen, even by those who can cast spells?

Reg nodded and vanished, though not before grinning like a thief in a rich man's home. Ethan assumed that the ghost followed as Adams led him to the small room at the back of the tavern.

Because Ethan was accompanied by Adams, no one tried to keep him from entering. John, the man who first greeted him at the door, eyed him with obvious mistrust, as did James Otis, whom Ethan had met on several occasions.

Ethan lingered in the room for a few minutes, which he hoped would be enough time for Reg to conduct his search. Then he approached Adams and bid the man farewell.

“Have you found … anyone?” Adams asked in a whisper.

“Not yet, sir. Perhaps in the great room.”

“Very well, Mister Kaille. We will meet again soon.”

They shook hands and Ethan left the small room for the main part of the tavern. He stood beside the door for some time, scanning the great room for any sign of Reg. Before long, he saw the image of the ghost flare beside the bar for no more than the blink of an eye.

Ethan pushed through the crowd to the bar. Reg appeared again beside a small man who stood drinking an ale, speaking to no one.

This one?
Ethan asked.

Reg nodded.

Anyone else?

No.

Can you tell how powerful he is?

Reg shook his head again.

Before Ethan could ask the ghost anything more, the man let out a gasp. He had spotted Reg—as the lone conjurer in the tavern other than Ethan, he was the only person who could see the shade.

“He's with me,” Ethan said.

The man turned with such haste that he slopped ale onto the bar and down the front of his own waistcoat.

“Who are you?”

“Ethan Kaille.” He held out a hand, which the man gripped with some reluctance.

“Are … are you with the Sons of Liberty?”

“No. I'm a thieftaker. I'm wondering if you would be so kind as to summon your spectral guide. Just for a moment.”

“Why should I?”

“As a courtesy to me.”

“What? I have no—”

Ethan silenced him with a raised finger. “As I said, I'm a thieftaker. I'm conducting an inquiry and would like very much to see your ghost. If you refuse, I'll have little choice but to assume you do so out of fear that your role in the crime will be discovered.”

“This is outrageous! What crime?”

Ethan shook his head. To Reg he said, “He leaves us no choice. I'm sure the sheriff will be eager to speak with him.”

“Now, wait a second. There's no need to involve the sheriff.”

“I quite agree,” Ethan said. “Your ghost?”

The man placed his tankard on the bar and whispered, “
Veni ad me.
”

A glowing figure appeared beside him: a woman dressed in finery, who glowed with a pale orange hue. She was rather homely, with curled hair and a haughty expression. She regarded Reg with unconcealed hostility.

“Is this the ghost you saw two days ago?” Ethan asked his own spectral guide.

No.

“Does the color of his power look familiar?”

No.

Ethan wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Are you satisfied?” the man asked, sounding self-righteous and angry. Ethan could hardly blame him.

“I am. Please accept my apologies, sir, and my thanks for your cooperation.”

“I'm not much inclined to accept either.”

Ethan donned his hat. “No, I don't imagine.” He started toward the stairway. “Good day, sir.”

“I want to know what crime you thought I had committed.”

Ethan halted, turned. “I beg your pardon.”

“The crime for which you were ready to blame me. I should like to know what it was. I believe you owe me that small courtesy.”

“I don't believe I owe you anything, sir.”

“You were lying. There was no crime.”

The man spoke bravely, but when Ethan took a step back in his direction, he quailed.

“What is your name?” Ethan asked.

“Why should I tell you that?”

“Small courtesies.”

His eyebrows bunched in a way that told Ethan he didn't appreciate having his words thrown back at him. But he said, “Jonathan Grant.”

“I wasn't lying, Mister Grant. And you might consider that accusing a stranger of such a thing, when you don't know how powerful a conjurer he is, might not be so wise. The crime in question is not one others know about, but it was committed on Middle Street, two days ago.”

Ethan walked away again.

“Two days—Hold on there.”

He didn't stop, and was halfway up the stairs when he heard Grant behind him.

“Please wait.”

Once more Ethan halted. He looked down at the man.

“Two days ago?” Grant said. “On Middle Street?”

“Aye.”

“You were there, and you felt a conjuring.”

“That's right.”

“Damn,” Grant whispered.

“I probably shouldn't have told you that,” Ethan said, walking back down to where Grant stood. “But you were right: I did owe you as much after threatening you. Please, breathe not a word of this to anyone else.”

“Could it have been Richardson who cast?”

Ethan shook his head. “I don't believe so.”

“What sort of spell was it?”

“I don't know that, either. Mister Grant, I would prefer—”

“Fear not, Mister Kaille,” Grant said in a weak voice. “Whom would I tell? No one here knows that I'm a conjurer, and as a clerk working for the Customs Board, few at my place of business know that I spend my free hours in the Green Dragon.”

Ethan grinned. “A clerk with the Customs Board? I believe, sir, that I misjudged you. You might be the bravest man in the tavern.”

“Hardly.”

“Since you work with the Customs boys, I would imagine that you know my brother-in-law, Geoffrey Brower.”

The smile Grant pasted on his face didn't fool Ethan at all. “Of course. He's a fine man.”

“You're kind to say so. I think he's an ass.” Ethan proffered a hand, which Grant gripped. “Your secrets are safe with me, Mister Grant.”

“And yours with me, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan tipped his hat to the man, and left the Dragon.

The snow had not abated at all; it might well have been falling harder than before. Ethan's walk back to the Dowser proved nearly as difficult as the walk to Union Street had been. He could see the furrow in the snow where he had walked, but already it was covered with new snowfall. It would be days before the city's streets were clear. If the air remained this cold, or grew more so once the storm blew through, it might take a week or more.

Adams could plan day and night, but with this much snow on the ground, Ethan did not expect that his funeral for Christopher Seider would amount to much.

 

Chapter

N
INE

The storm ended that night, leaving more than two feet of snow on Boston's streets and rooftops. As Ethan expected—his years at sea had taught him to read the sky and the wind—after the storm passed, the air turned frigid once more, even as the clouds cleared away, leaving a sky bright with stars.

Kannice did not open the Dowser at all that day, and Kelf never made it to the tavern. Ethan and Kannice enjoyed a rare evening alone. They ate a modest meal before retreating to the warmth of her bedroom.

Lying with her, listening to the crackle of the fire burning in the hearth, Ethan realized that he could hear no other sounds. Outside, the streets were empty, the air had gone still, and the snowfall had ended. He had never known Boston to be so utterly silent. It was both eerie and wondrous.

At one point, he and Kannice opened the shutters on her bedroom window and peered out into the night, staring in awe at the blanketed city, which appeared to glow with starlight. Then they closed the shutters once more and burrowed under the blankets to escape the cold.

On Sunday morning, the streets of the city came to life again, not with commerce and carriages, but with families wading through the snow to church, and then, once the day's sermons were over, with children lured out into the snow by the promise of sledding and snowball fights. From within the tavern, Ethan could also hear the muffled scrape of metal shovels on snow-covered cobblestone.

Kelf reached the tavern at about midday, his breeches caked with snow and his face ruddy. Not long after, Diver arrived, his coat and hair damp. He grinned sheepishly at Ethan.

“Got into a bit of combat with the lads on Treamount,” he said, crossing the great room to stand before the hearth. “They threw snowballs at me, I threw one back, and before I knew it, we were in a pitched battle. There were at least six of them, but I gave as good as I got.”

Ethan sipped a toddy. “I'm sure.”

Even Kannice seemed amused.

“Where's Deborah?” Ethan asked.

“She's back in her room. I only came out because I had matters to see to on Union Street.”

Ethan straightened in his chair. “The Sons?”

Diver glanced at Kannice, perhaps fearful of her response. On most nights, she did not allow in her tavern discussions of politics—or anything else that might lead to a row. But she ignored Diver's remark, even though Ethan was sure she had heard him.

“Aye,” Diver said, facing Ethan again. “They want each of us to bring as many people as possible. Adams is hoping for a huge crowd.”

“He's still planning to do this tomorrow?”

“Of course. Why shouldn't he be?”

“Have you looked at the streets, Diver? He'll be fortunate to get a dozen people there.”

Diver grinned. “I think you're wrong. It's going to be the biggest assembly this city has seen in many years. But if you'd care to place a small wager on the matter, I'd be more than happy to lighten your purse by a pound or two.”

“I don't think so,” Ethan said.

“A half sovereign?”

“An ale,” Ethan said. “Kannice's Kent pale. I don't want you buying me some swill from another tavern.”

Diver's smile broadened. “Done.”

*   *   *

Ethan spent the rest of that day and much of Monday at the Dowser. Kannice took advantage of the lack of customers to straighten up her kitchen and bar, something she had wanted to do for months. Ethan helped Kelf lift, carry, and clean as she directed, enjoying the work far more than he would have guessed. He was glad to labor and sweat without giving a thought to spells and shadowy conjurers, to Sephira and her toughs, and to the possible whereabouts of Nate Ramsey. He felt no conjurings, and even started to question whether he had been too quick to assume that the spells he had noticed in recent days were responsible for Gordon's attack on Will Pryor and Richardson's shooting of Chris Seider.

Late on Monday afternoon, Ethan, Kelf, and Kannice set out from the Dowsing Rod for the Liberty Tree. Some effort had been made to clear the streets of snow, and many merchants and craftsmen had shoveled paths to the doors of their shops. Still, Ethan found it hard to believe that more than a handful of people would come to the Seider funeral.

He and the others hadn't been abroad in the city for long before he realized how wrong he had been.

Though the streets remained covered with a thick layer of snow that made them only barely passable, Ethan soon found himself in a broad stream of men, women, and children filing through the lanes toward Boston's Neck. The farther he, Kannice, and Kelf walked from the Dowser, the more people he saw. They came from the North End and Cornhill, the waterfront and the South End, all converging on Marlborough Street. There, they continued in silence, with grim purpose, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. By the time they reached the corner of Orange Street and Essex, where stood the famed Liberty Tree, they numbered at least a thousand.

A large sign had been erected near the tree. On it were several biblical quotations that someone—Adams perhaps—had deemed appropriate for the occasion.

“Though Hand join in Hand, the Wicked shall not pass unpunish'd,” read one.

And another said, “Thou shalt take no satisfaction for the life of a MURDERER—he shall surely be put to death.”

As it turned out, the men and women who had walked with Ethan, Kannice, and Kelf to the Liberty Tree represented but a fraction of those who had come to honor Christopher Seider. A far greater number of people awaited them along Orange Street south of the tree. Adams and his allies had already begun to arrange the procession that would march through the city streets. Hundreds of schoolboys had been lined up in twin columns, their cheeks red with the cold. Behind them, flanked by six more boys—pallbearers, it seemed—lay on the snow a small, wooden coffin with Latin inscriptions painted in silver lettering along its sides and at its head. A cluster of perhaps three dozen men, women, and children stood next in line. Many of them wept openly, and when Ethan walked past, he heard snatches of conversation in German. He gathered that these were Seider's parents, relatives, and friends.