Thieftaker tc-1

by D. B. Jackson

  Ethan halted, glanced back over his shoulder, and saw Yellow-hair walking his way, though the man hadn’t seen him yet. Gordon whistled sharply, no doubt to point out Ethan to his friend. Ethan didn’t wait to see what Yellow-hair did.

  His route home was blocked, so he went north instead, dashing up a small lane-he thought it was called Pierce’s Alley-toward Faneuil Hall. He could hear footsteps behind him, and so knew that both men were after him. He assumed that Sephira’s other henchmen were close by.

  It didn’t take long for his bad leg to start aching, but he couldn’t allow his limp to slow him down. Emerging from the shadows of the alley into the afternoon sun, still at a full run, Ethan chose to cut through Dock Square toward the Dowser.

  Before he had gotten far, however, he spotted two more of Sephira’s men. One of them, another brute, stood at the southwest end of the square, blocking his access to Cornhill Street and Hillier’s Lane. The fourth man-Ethan remembered once hearing Sephira call him Nap-stood opposite this other, guarding the corner of Union Street. Nap was muscular and tall and Ethan had no doubt that he was a competent fighter-better than Gordon and the brute, probably. But he was the smallest of Sephira’s crew, and, like the other man, he hadn’t yet caught sight of Ethan.

  That wouldn’t be true for long.

  He ran hard toward Nap, sweat soaking his face, his limp worsening. Another shrill whistle cut across the normal street noise of the square. Gordon, no doubt. Nap whirled at the sound, searching for its source. A moment later, he looked directly at Ethan, recognition making his eyes widen. He reached frantically for his blade, but by then Ethan was bearing down on him.

  Lowering his shoulder, Ethan rammed into the man, hitting him full in the chest. Nap and Ethan were about the same size, but Nap hadn’t managed to brace himself. He flew off his feet and crashed into a group of ladies wearing fine linen dresses. All of them wound up in a heap on the cobblestones. Ethan stumbled, but kept his feet and ran on, his shoulder screaming agony.

  He was on Union Street now. He had no doubt that the others were right behind him. Rather than continue toward the Dowsing Rod and risk leading Yellow-hair and the others right to Kannice, Ethan followed Ann Street eastward, down along the wharves and warehouses.

  His leg was growing worse by the moment, and his lungs burned. He didn’t slacken his pace, but he knew he couldn’t outrun Sephira’s men forever. They were younger than he was, stronger. He scanned the street for somewhere he might hide, even as he continued to run. Too late he realized that the lanes were less crowded here, that he was more alone than he would have been had he taken a different route.

  At the next corner, he turned, intending to head up into the central part of the North End. But he halted immediately, his chest heaving with every breath.

  “Damnit!” he said.

  A single man stood at the corner of the next street, waiting… For him. Seeing him, the man smirked and started in his direction. Ethan backed away, and then ran back onto Ann Street, still heading north.

  “Kaille!”

  Ethan spun. Yellow-hair was behind him with Nap, who didn’t look at all pleased to see him. Yellow-hair was grinning, though, standing in the middle of the lane, a pistol held loosely in his right hand.

  Ethan started away again, but a moment later, two more men emerged onto the street a block in front of him. He slowed. Gordon and the brute who had been with Nap stepped onto the lane from Cross Street, joining the two other toughs who had blocked his way.

  They had herded him to this spot, like wolves nipping at his heels. And he had let them do it. He had been too quick to run, too predictable.

  Ethan stopped and positioned himself so that he could watch Gordon and the men approaching from the north while also keeping an eye on Yellow-hair and Nap.

  “What does Sephira want with me now?” he asked, still breathing hard. “She’s not satisfied with having you beat me to a bloody mess… now she wants you to finish the job?”

  “If only,” Yellow-hair said. “She wants us t’ deliver a message. Tha’s all.”

  Ethan cast a quick look toward Gordon. He and the brute were closer than Ethan expected.

  “Stop there,” Ethan called to them, pulling out his knife.

  Gordon laughed. “Ya think ya kin kill us all with tha’ blade?”

  “He’s a speller, fool!” Yellow-hair said. “He doesn’ have t’ kill us with th’ knife.”

  Gordon halted in his tracks, throwing out a hand to stop the other men. His face had gone white.

  “I’ll conjure if I have to,” Ethan told them, looking first at Yellow-hair and then at the rest. He pushed his sleeve up, exposing his scarred forearm. “I could kill all of you, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”

  “Easy, Kaille,” Yellow-hair said. He had stopped, too, and now he raised his pistol for Ethan to see and then slipped it back into his coat pocket. He opened his hands. “Ya see? I jus’ wanna talk t’ ya.”

  “All right,” Ethan said. “Talk.”

  Sephira’s man beckoned to him with a wave. “In private. Come with me.”

  Ethan didn’t move. “I don’t think so.”

  Yellow-hair frowned, but said, “Miss Pryce heard tha’ ya’d been offer’d Jennifer Berson’s missin’ brooch.”

  Ethan stared at him, at last letting out a small, breathless laugh. “Where did she hear that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Retrieving the brooch means nothing if I don’t find her killer.”

  “Miss Pryce disagrees,” he said. “Ya’re a thieftaker. Yar job is t’ retrieve stolen goods.”

  Ethan was fast tiring of Sephira and her men always being a step ahead of him.

  “Is it true?” Yellow-hair asked again. “Have ya been offer’d th’ brooch?”

  “Yes.”

  The man smiled. “Tha’s good, Kaille. Miss Pryce says tha’ ya’d be wise t’ take it, return it t’ Berson, an’ be done with this bus’ness.” His smile widened. “She also said tha’ this time ya can keep whatever he pays ya.”

  “That’s generous of her. But why should she care? I happen to know that this is one crime you and your friends didn’t commit.” Ethan glanced back at Gordon, who had started to creep forward again. Immediately he raised his blade to his bared forearm. Gordon froze. Ethan gestured with the knife, and the man took a few steps back.

  Yellow-hair beckoned once more for Ethan to join him. “Come on, Kaille. There’s somethin’ she wanted me t’ show ya. These others’ll stay here. It’ll jus’ be th’ two of us, an’ ya can keep yar knife.”

  Ethan eyed the other men. He didn’t trust any of them, but he had a better chance of escaping if he was only with Yellow-hair. He walked to where the man stood and indicated that he should lead the way. Yellow-hair grinned and started down a narrow alley that ran parallel to the waterfront. Ethan followed.

  They walked a short distance in silence, before Ethan asked, “What’s her interest in this? Do you even know?”

  “She has an interest in ev’rythin’ tha’ happens in this city. Ya should know tha’ by now.”

  Ethan glanced back to make sure none of the other men had followed them. He saw no one.

  “She wanted me t’ tell ya tha’ this is no time for ya t’ try an’ be some sorta hero. Ya should take th’ brooch an’ be done. Ya’ve had a taste o’ workin’ for th’ Beacon Street crowd-th’ Abner Bersons an’ their kind. Ya could make a lot o’ money. This is no time for ya t’ do somethin’ stupid.”

  “Yesterday she told me that I was never again to work for the Abner Bersons of the world. Now she’s trying to tempt me with their silver? Tell Sephira she should make up her mind.”

  They crossed Fish Street and entered another alley. It seemed that they were headed toward the North Battery.

  “Where are we going, Yellow-hair?”

  The man looked at him. “Yellow-hair?”

  Ethan shrugged. “That’s what I call you. I don’t know your name.�
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  The man shook his head and laughed. “It’s Nigel.”

  “All right. Where are we going, Nigel?”

  “Not much longer now.”

  They fell into another brief silence.

  “Ya’re wastin yar time, ya know,” Nigel said at length.

  “It’s a waste of time to learn who killed Jennifer Berson?”

  “We already know who killed her. Ya’re not helpin’ th’ Bersons, an’ ya’re not helpin’ yarself.”

  “That’s crazy!” Ethan said. “You don’t think Berson and his wife want to find out who killed their daughter and why?”

  “Ya’re no’ listenin’, Kaille! He’ll be satisfied when he gets his jewel back, an’ when he knows for certain tha’ she’s dead ’cuz o’ tha’ mob. Whoever killed her was takin’ orders from Ebenezer Mackintosh. He’s gonna hang for this, an’ when he does, justice’ll be done.”

  He sounded too sure of himself. Ethan felt uneasy. He slowed, then halted. “Where are we going? What is this all about?”

  Nigel didn’t stop. “Jus’ a bit farther.”

  Ethan began to follow again, his grip on his knife tightening. He said nothing more to the man, and Nigel seemed content to walk in silence. Eventually they reached the North Battery and turned onto Battery Alley. They hadn’t gone far on the narrow lane when Nigel stopped.

  Ethan looked around warily. “What are we doing here?”

  “Miss Pryce had one more message for ya,” Nigel said. He paused, his brow creasing. “It went like this: Ya owe me a word o’ thanks for cleanin’ up yar mess.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Yar mess, Kaille. Daniel Folter.”

  Ethan felt the blood drain from his face. “What about him?”

  “Miss Pryce is sure it was an oversight. Ya were supposed t’ hand him over t’ th’ sheriff, or failin’ that, take care o’ him yarself. But ya didn’. Th’ people o’ Boston have t’ feel safe. They have t’ know tha’ th’ men who steal from them will be dealt with. Mercy is weakness, she told me t’ say, an’ she thinks ya’re weak.”

  “That… demon.” It came out as a whisper.

  Nigel grinned. “Ya shoulda taken care o’ it yarself. We only did wha’ you had been hired t’ do.”

  He turned his head slowly and looked into an alley. Following the line of his gaze, Ethan saw a form lying in the shadows. He couldn’t see a face, but what he did see-long legs, torn breeches, a worn, bloodstained waistcoat, and more blood staining the cobblestones-told him all he needed to know.

  “I should kill you where you stand,” Ethan said, raising his knife to his forearm.

  Nigel grabbed his pistol from his pocket and leveled it at Ethan’s chest.

  “Ethan?”

  They turned at the same time to stare at the boy who had stepped onto the street from another small alley leading off toward the wharves.

  Holin Harper, the oldest child of Marielle, Ethan’s former betrothed, stood at the corner, flanked by Pitch and Shelly. Ethan had no idea what the boy was doing here or how he had found them, but he could not allow Marielle’s child to come to harm. Yellow-hair appeared to sense this, like a wolf smelling fear in its prey. His eyes flicked in Ethan’s direction, and there was a grin on his lips.

  Both dogs growled deep in their throats, their hackles rising.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ethan said, his voice low.

  This had to be done carefully. Neither Holin nor his sister knew that Ethan was a conjurer and Elli would have his head if they found out. Worse, she would forbid them to see Ethan again.

  “Leave us now,” he told Sephira’s man. “Or I swear I won’t care at all what happens to me.”

  Fear flashed in the man’s dark eyes. But his grin returned quickly, even as he put the pistol back in his pocket. “Fine, Kaille.” He looked at the boy again and chuckled. “But ya better give a thought t’ Miss Pryce’s message.” He nodded toward the alley where lay Daniel’s body. “Tha’ could be you.” He smiled at Holin and started back the way he and Ethan had come.

  Ethan stood silently, his forearm itching, his blade hand shaking. He wanted to feel hot blood running over his skin. He wanted to draw upon the power coursing through his body and reduce the smug bastard to a pile of ash.

  But he merely stood there, feeling utterly helpless as he watched Sephira’s man walk away.

  Chapter Ten

  “ He works for Sephira Pryce!”

  Ethan felt ill. He’d had few dealings with Folter; like Kannice, he thought him a fool. But he had chosen to let the pup go, to spare him years in prison or worse. Corbett wouldn’t have approved, but the merchant had hired him to deal with the matter, and Ethan had done so, in his own way. There had been no harm in it. Corbett had his jewels back, and Folter would still be alive if he had left the city as Ethan told him to. The fool. The poor, dead fool.

  “Ethan?”

  He should do something for Daniel. He should cover the body, or at least get word to the sheriff. But right now, he was more concerned with keeping Holin out of that bloodied alley.

  Mercy is weakness.

  He refused to believe that. He was a mutineer and a conjurer. The members of the Admiralty Court had known this when they sent Ethan to labor in the cane fields rather than sentencing him to swing from the gallows. That had been an act of mercy, an acknowledgment that while Ethan had done wrong, he had been young and stupid rather than truly wicked. Where was the weakness in what the court had done?

  “Ethan?”

  Holin stood with his hands buried in his pockets, his eyes following Yellow-hair, who was still on Ann Street, though out of earshot.

  “That man works for Sephira Pryce, doesn’t he? He even mentioned her.”

  Every time Ethan saw Holin he thought the boy must have grown by half a foot or more. He had nearly reached Ethan’s height and would probably grow another six inches before he was done. Still, his face was that of a boy, and he remained gangly. He looked like he was never sure of the whereabouts of all four limbs at once. His skin was fair, his hair the color of wheat, his eyes like the sky on a clear autumn morning. His features were so fine as to be girlish and he still had no hint of his first beard.

  The boy turned to him. “Are you all right? Your face…”

  “I’m fine,” Ethan said, making himself smile. “It looks worse than it feels.”

  “It looks pretty bad.”

  Shelly nudged Ethan’s hand with her snout; he scratched her head absently. “I know. And yes, that man works for Sephira Pryce.”

  “It looked like you two were fighting.”

  “Sephira and I are both thieftakers,” Ethan said, as if that explained everything. “It’s natural that we should be rivals.” He frowned, noticing for the first time where they were, and where the boy had been. “What are you doing down here, Holin? The wharves are no place for…” He had been about to say “for a boy,” but he stopped himself. “For someone your age,” he said instead.

  Holin laughed, his blue eyes dancing. “That was well done. Mother never catches herself in time.”

  “She doesn’t have to; she’s your mother. Now answer the question.”

  “I’ve started working at Hunt’s Wharf,” Holin told him, standing just a bit straighter. “Loading and unloading for one-and-six a day.”

  Ethan frowned again. If Holin was working on the waterfront, he had no choice but to cross through this part of the city every day. Ethan had half a mind to tell Elli to keep the boy at home, at least until he had found this sorcerer. But Holin would be angry with him, and chances were that Elli wouldn’t listen anyway.

  “How old are you now?” Ethan asked. “Fourteen?”

  “Fifteen!” Holin said, indignant.

  “Fifteen.” Ethan nodded. “That’s decent money for a… a young man your age.”

  Holin laughed. “Aye, you’re much better at that than Mother is.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you home,” Ethan said,
glancing in the direction Nigel had gone. He didn’t see the man anymore. He started to put away his blade, but then thought better of it. His leg still ached and he felt sweat trickling down his temples, but his pulse was slowing.

  “I offered to give the money to Mother,” Holin said, as they began to walk, the dogs trotting ahead of them. “But she’s letting me keep it. She says we have enough and that grandfather will help us if we need more.”

  “That’s kind of her,” Ethan said absently, still watchful.

  The truth was Elli didn’t need the money. Her father, Van Taylor, was still one of the wealthiest shipbuilders in Boston. And John Harper, Elli’s husband, had been a successful merchant. When he died, he left her a spacious stone house in the North End. And if that wasn’t enough, she owned a small shop just around the corner from their residence, where she sold lace and ribbons, silk and satin, catering to the finer tastes of Boston’s wealthier women.

  Ethan was a prisoner when Elli married Harper; he was still in the cane fields when John died of pleurisy eight years ago. He could convince himself that during his years on the plantation he had wished Elli happiness, knowing that she would not wait for him. But he couldn’t deny that upon returning to Boston, and learning that she had been widowed, he immediately began to wonder if he might win back his first and only love.

  At first, he refrained from contacting her, knowing that there was no point so long as he remained a pauper, a wretched convict without prospects. But once he had established himself as a thieftaker, he sought her out. The first several times he showed up at her door, Elli sent him away. He had concealed from her the fact that he was a conjurer and had humiliated her by being part of the Ruby Blade mutiny. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  But one day, nearly a year after his return to Boston, he encountered Elli and her children in Faneuil Hall. It was the first warm day of spring, and Ethan was enjoying the sights, smells, and flavors of the market. His imprisonment felt like a distant memory. He greeted Elli jovially, but she remained distant and cold.