Thieftaker (15 page)

“Why didn’t you say something while we were in the crypt?”

Pell shrugged, his brow creasing. Suddenly, he looked terribly young. “I wasn’t sure my memory of the boy’s death was reliable, and … and I feared you would think me foolish for mentioning it. But tonight, as I was readying myself for bed and I was supposed to be praying, I couldn’t get the two of them out of my head. That’s when I decided to find you.”

“Where do you live, Mister Pell?”

“Mister Caner has been kind enough to let me a room in his home. For a most reasonable fee,” he added.

“Did anyone see you leave his house?”

That brought a smile to the minister’s face. “No. Back in my youth, before I was sent to study for the ministry, I was something of a rascal. I became quite adept at slipping from my home and back in again without my parents’ knowledge.” His eyes danced. “Until, of course, I got caught and wound up reading for Orders.”

Ethan decided in that moment that he liked Pell. “And is it this same penchant for mischief that makes you want to learn a spell you’re forbidden to use, a spell that could get you banished from the Church, and possibly even burned as a witch?”

The minister blushed and grew pale at the same time, so that the only points of color on his face were bright red spots high on each cheek. “I’m no fool, Mister Kaille. I wouldn’t get myself banished or burned or hanged. And I’ve been thinking that I’ve spent too long denying this part of my ancestry.”

“I can appreciate that. But I’m not willing to risk your life by teaching you spells. And if by some chance my sister were to learn that I had so much as mentioned such things to you, she would have my head.” Ethan paused, looking at the minister. “Then again, if you hope to return to the Chapel without anyone knowing that you left, you had best let me heal that bruise on your jaw.”

Pell probed it gingerly with his fingers, frowning again. “I could say that I fell.”

“Yes, you could,” Ethan said, keeping his expression neutral.

“You don’t think that would fool anyone.”

Ethan couldn’t hide his amusement any longer. “No, I don’t.”

Pell’s frown deepened, and for several moments he sat, seeming to wrestle with his conscience. “All right then,” Pell finally said. “Go ahead.”

Ethan reached for his knife, cut his forearm, and gently dabbed a bit of his blood on the minister’s jaw. “
Remedium ex cruore evocatum.
” Healing, conjured from blood.

Ethan felt that familiar pulse of power, and Pell shuddered as if from a sudden chill. Reg blinked into view at Ethan’s side. His sudden appearance drew a quick intake of breath from the minister.

“What is that?” Pell asked, recoiling.

“I’m not sure there’s time to explain right now. He’s basically a ghost.”

Reg scowled.

“All right. He’s a guide who helps me draw on the power I need for conjurings. Better?” he asked the ghost.

The glowing old man nodded.

“Does he appear every time you conjure?”

“Aye,” Ethan said. “Without him the spell wouldn’t work.”

Pell watched the ghost warily. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“I’d be surprised if he did,” Ethan told him. “He doesn’t even like me.”

The minister raised a hand to his jaw again. Already the swelling was going down.

“The air around me, it … it buzzed, when you cast the spell. Does it always feel like that?”

“It does to you, because the blood of a conjurer flows in your veins. Others who have no history of spellmaking in their families wouldn’t feel a thing. Except for the healing, that is.”

The minister touched the bruise again, more boldly this time. The discoloration had faded. By the time Pell was back at Caner’s house, there would be no sign that Ethan had hit him.

“Why don’t you heal your own wounds?” Pell asked. “Surely you could do for yourself what you’ve done for me.”

“I could,” Ethan said. “Other than me, no one saw your bruise. But after I was beaten, I was found by the cooper whose shop is below. He lets this room to me. He’s a decent man and a friend, but he doesn’t know I’m a conjurer. I’m not sure how he would feel about me living here if he did.”

“Of course,” Pell said. “I should have known.”

Ethan shrugged. “You don’t live the life of a speller. There’s no reason you should have to think as I do.” After a moment, he looked up and found the minister watching him. “Go back home, Mister Pell, before you’re missed.”

Pell stood. “All right.” He stepped to the door. “You’ll let me know what you find out about these killings?”

“Of course. Thank you for telling me all of this. And my apologies for assaulting you.”

Pell smiled and pulled the door open. “It wasn’t too bad. To be honest this night’s been more of an adventure than I’ve had in some time. I rather enjoyed it.”

He stepped out of the room and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. Ethan could hear the man descending the stairs, but only just. It seemed Pell remembered much from his mischief-making days.

It had grown late and Ethan’s appetite had long since vanished in a haze of fatigue and pain. He locked his door, and then as an afterthought, propped a chair against it, jamming the back of the chair firmly against the base of the doorknob: a little extra protection in case Sephira and her men tried to pay him another visit.

He undressed and fell into bed, and he was asleep within moments of closing his eyes.

*   *   *

Immediately upon awaking, Ethan knew that he had slept far longer than he intended. The daylight streaming into his room through the one window was far too bright, and he could hear Henry in the shop below hammering away at the stays of some new barrel.

He sat up quickly—too quickly. The pain in his head, his neck, his sides and back actually ripped a gasp from his lips. He sat still for a long time, allowing the agony to drain away while he cursed Sephira Pryce with a vehemence that would have shocked Mr. Pell. When at last he could move again, he did so with great care.

Once he was dressed and had managed to pull on his boots, Ethan left the room for a nearby grocer, intending to buy some food, tea, and molasses for his long-neglected larder—on credit, of course, since Sephira and her men had taken all of his coin. As if sensing his purpose, Pitch and Shelly met him at the bottom of the steps and fell in alongside him as he walked.

“You two are shameless,” he said. Pitch looked up at him, tail wagging, clearly pleased with himself.

After purchasing some food—he had to endure stares from the grocer and his wife, as well as their children—and returning with it to his room, Ethan had some tea and buttered bread for his breakfast. Then he set out again for the waterfront. Perhaps the boys working the warehouses knew something about the Dernes, and the Bersons as well. Eventually he would wind up back in the Dowsing Rod; whatever he couldn’t learn on the wharves he could find out there. Boston had its share of newspapers, but half of what their publishers printed they learned in Boston’s taverns.

Halfway to the Dowser, Ethan spotted Diver. His friend walked with his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his eyes scanning the street. Ethan came up beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Diver jumped as if he had seen a snake and reached for his blade. Ethan took a step back, holding up his hands for his friend to see.

“Ethan!” he said. “Don’t do that, mate! You scared me half…” He stopped, gaping at Ethan’s face. “Damn! What happened to you?”

“Had a visit from Sephira and her men.”

Diver’s eyes went wide. “When?”

“Yesterday.” He dropped his voice. “I just took on a new job—Abner Berson—and Sephira doesn’t like me taking away her rich clients.”

“I thought you weren’t working for a while.”

“So did I,” Ethan said. “But this job is different.”

“I would think it is,” Diver said pointedly, “with Berson paying.”

“Speaking of jobs, why aren’t you at the wharf?”

The younger man’s expression soured. “Why d’you think?” he said. “I showed up this morning and no one was working. Mister Woodman was there himself turning boys away. ‘We don’t want any rabble working here today,’ he said. ‘And not for a while to come, either.’” Diver shook his head, his expression dark. “He wasn’t the only one, either. Merchants seem to think that every grub in Boston was with that mob. So I left and decided to go to the Dowser. But there’s talk of some of these merchants hiring toughs to walk the streets. ‘Keep the rabble at bay.’ That’s what they’re sayin’ anyway. Thought you were one of them, for a moment.”

“I figured it must be something like that,” Ethan said. “But you might want to think twice about reaching for your blade every time someone puts a hand on you.”

“It’s this deal with the French,” Diver said, his voice falling to a whisper as he glanced around to see that no one could hear. “Has me on edge, you know?”

“I figured that, too.” Ethan put his hand on the man’s shoulder again, and they started walking toward the tavern. “Come on. We’ll get a bite to eat.”

“You buying?” Diver asked.

“No, you are. Sephira took all my money.”

Diver frowned. “Hope you’re not too hungry.”

“Starved,” Ethan said with a grin.

The Dowser was as crowded as Ethan had ever seen it so early in the day. Nearly everyone turned as Ethan and Diver stepped inside. A few people stared hard at Ethan’s bruised face, but the rest quickly looked away again. The place fairly buzzed with conversation, though there was little of the boisterous laughter Ethan was used to hearing within these walls. On the other hand, the tavern smelled of good food and ale, as it always did. Some of the Dowser’s patrons stood at the bar eating oysters and drinking ale. Others sat at tables, eating creamed fish stew—chowder, as it had come to be known in Boston in recent years.

“Y’all right, Ethan?” Kelf said, running the words together, as Ethan and Diver crossed to the bar.

“Aye, thank you, Kelf. Where’s Kannice?”

“’N back. I’ll get her.”

“She seen you since…?” Diver gestured at Ethan’s face.

Ethan shook his head. “No.” But he was thinking more about the cross words they had exchanged before he left the previous morning. He should have known better.

She emerged from the kitchen wearing an icy expression, but as soon as she saw him it melted away. “God have mercy!” she said, her brow furrowing. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Ethan said.

“Yes, I can see that.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “You’ve never looked better. Tell me what happened.”

“I will, later,” he said, softening the words with a smile. “First, though, have you heard anything about merchants shutting down their wharves?”

She frowned and shook her head. “No. Not that it would surprise me, but I’ve heard nothing.”

“It might just be a few in the South End,” Ethan said to Diver. “Friends of Hallowell or Story, maybe.”

“We’ll be lucky if that’s all that comes of last night’s nonsense,” Kannice said, casting an accusing glare at Diver. “Wait until news of this reaches the king. And Grenville. Then there’ll be trouble.”

To his credit, Diver ignored her. “What about the wharves?” he asked. “How long do you think they’ll be sending us away?”

“Not long,” Ethan said. “The merchants will want to make it clear that they don’t like being at the mercy of street gangs and mobs. But they have ships to unload and goods to sell. That’s what they care about. I’d wager that you’ll be working the wharves again in a day or two.”

“I hope you’re right,” his friend said with so much relief that Ethan knew he was thinking about the rum and wine. Never in his life had Diver complained about a day off from work.

Kannice ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head and looking grim. “Frankly, if this is the worst of it—a bit of inconvenience for Diver and his friends—we should count ourselves lucky and keep our mouths shut.”

Ethan was inclined to agree, but before he could say so, Diver responded.

“It’s Grenville and his lot who should count themselves lucky,” he said. “Everything they do is meant to help them that are rich and leave the rest of us scuffling for a shilling and a meal. If that’s what they have in mind for us, we’d be just as well off on our own.”

Kannice whirled on him. “I won’t have seditious talk in this bar, Devren Jervis! Shouting in the lanes is one thing; treason is quite another! If you’re going to carry on about things you know nothing about, you had best be leaving!”

Diver took a step back, blinking. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Kannice. I was just speaking as a—”

“As a what? A fool? I knew that already!”

“As a man who’s got business in the streets,” Diver said, a wounded expression on his face.

Kannice drew herself up. “Well—”

“I need him to stay, Kannice,” Ethan broke in quietly. “He’s promised to buy me a bit of supper.”

She impaled Ethan with her glare. He knew what she was thinking: She would gladly have fed Ethan for free if it meant banishing Diver from her tavern. But after a moment, she relented.

“Fine then,” she said. She stared hard at Diver. “No more of that talk.”

“I promise,” Diver said.

She waved a hand toward their usual table at the back of the tavern and started toward the kitchen. “Sit down, both of you. I’ll bring some stew.”

Ethan and Diver seated themselves at the table. A moment later, Kannice brought them two bowls of chowder. She set the bowls in front of them and sat beside Ethan.

“Now,” she said, “about your face.”

Ethan took a spoonful of stew. It was as delicious as he remembered. Rich, slightly sweet, with just a hint of dill.

“Sephira Pryce,” he said quietly, after swallowing. “She wanted to impress upon me that I wasn’t to grow accustomed to working for men of Abner Berson’s means.”

“How is it that she’s still allowed to walk the streets of this city? Maybe if Sheriff Greenleaf had an ounce of courage he could find a way to keep the peace without relying on her kind.”

“I’m her kind,” Ethan said. “If Greenleaf had an ounce of courage, I might be out of a job.”

“You’d find another, and a better one at that.” She eyed his bruises again and her frown returned. “You’re lucky she didn’t kill you.”