Thieftaker

by D. B. Jackson

“Like your ghost?”

  “My guide,” Ethan said. “Yes, like him.”

  “But if the color doesn’t show up without a … a revealing spell, what’s the use of knowing that? Why does it matter what color this conjurer’s power is?”

  Ethan looked at the dead girl. “That’s an excellent question. The truth is, it doesn’t mean much unless I find the conjurer and see his guide. As you’ve pointed out, the color will be the same.”

  “Is there a spell that reveals what another conjuring was intended to do?”

  “No,” Ethan said. “I’m afraid not.”

  “So, you don’t know what the conjurer did with this girl’s life. Or with Jennifer Berson’s.”

  “Not yet.”

  But even as he said this, Ethan felt something tugging at his mind, taunting him, remaining just beyond his reach. He did know; the answer was right there in front of him. But he couldn’t remember what it was.

  “Ethan?”

  “There’s something…” Ethan said, shaking his head slowly.

  Before Pell could question him further, they both heard footsteps on the stairs. The minister stared at Ethan, the look on his face like that of a child caught in a lie.

  “Can you do anything about that glow?” Pell asked.

  “I’d have to cast another spell,” Ethan told him. “And it would work too slowly.”

  “Damn!” the minister said, sounding very unministerlike.

  A moment later, Henry Caner entered the corridor. He was alone—a small grace—but judging from the look on his face, Ethan guessed that the rector would have ordered him hanged had there been men of the watch with him.

  “What is this?” Caner demanded, his words echoing loudly in the crypt. “What have you done to her?”

  Ethan didn’t flinch from his glare. “I’ve cast a revealing spell, Reverend, sir.”

  “In my church? How dare you!”

  “He had no choice, Mister Caner,” Pell said. “I gave him leave to do it.”

  “You had no right, Trevor! And your decision might well get you dismissed from this church, perhaps from the ministry!”

  “It’s not Mister Pell’s fault,” Ethan said. “I would have cast the spell even if he had demanded that I leave. To be honest with you, Mister Caner, the sanctity of your church was the least of my concerns. And it should be the least of yours, too.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Ethan pointed at the stone table. “She was murdered by a conjurer, the same man who killed Jennifer Berson and quite possibly two other people.”

  “That doesn’t excuse what you’ve done here. One act of evil can’t justify another.”

  “Evil?” Ethan repeated.

  “I warned you when last we spoke that I wouldn’t continue to tolerate your … black arts. I ought to give you over to the sheriff. In actuality this time.”

  “I won’t let you do that, Mister Caner.”

  “What did you say?” the rector demanded of Pell, his chins quivering.

  “You heard me, Reverend, sir. Mister Kaille is trying to find a murderer, a conjurer who uses spells to kill. If you can’t see the difference between his conjurings and those of this monster, then perhaps I should find another church in which to serve God.”

  Caner glared at him, and then at Ethan. “You see? You’ve poisoned his mind, set him against me, and against the Lord.”

  “I don’t believe I have. You heard him. He still wishes to serve God. Just not necessarily here.”

  “What are you doing, Trevor?” Caner asked, as if he hadn’t heard Ethan. “Don’t you see that he’s a threat to all that you believe? Don’t you understand that his very presence here is an affront to the Lord?”

  “I don’t believe that’s true, Mister Caner,” Pell said.

  Caner recoiled. “You don’t believe that Mister Kaille has desecrated these grounds with his witchcraft?”

  “I believe that the circumstances justify what he did.” The minister hesitated, but only for a moment. “And I believe it’s possible that his gifts come not from Satan, but from our Lord God.”

  The rector gaped at him, his small mouth hanging open.

  “We can discuss theology later,” Ethan said. “For now, I need to know as much about this girl as you can tell me.”

  Caner continued to stare at Pell, his expression more sad than angry, his heavy-lidded eyes making him look weary.

  “Mister Caner?” Ethan said.

  “There’s not much to tell,” the rector said, still eyeing the young minister. “She was found near the wharves in the South End, by a man and woman who were…” He paused, shook his head. “Well, in any case, they found her and sought out a member of the watch. The girl’s mother is a widow, and they have little money. I fear the girl was working in the streets, if you follow.”

  Ethan winced. She was too young to have been leading such a hard life.

  “You say there have been four murders?” Caner asked.

  “I believe so. This girl, Jennifer Berson, the young boy who died on Pope’s Day—Brown was his name—and another who was killed the day that Ann and John Richardson were hanged.”

  “The boy was killed by witchery? I thought he was run over by a cart.”

  “He was,” Pell said. “But after he died.”

  Caner’s brow creased. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “I know you don’t,” Ethan said, feeling sympathy for the rector in spite of all that had passed between them. “These people were killed by a conjurer, who used their lives to lend strength to his spells. And these spells, I believe, were intended to control the behavior of others.”

  To his credit, the minister didn’t dismiss these claims out of hand. But neither did he sound convinced as he asked, “Do you know this for certain, or is it conjecture?”

  “I have some proof,” Ethan said. He indicated the girl. “You see that glow—”

  “You did that,” Caner said.

  “Yes, I did. I cast a revealing spell. What you see there is the mark of the conjurer who killed her. If this man had killed her with an attack, the silver glow would be concentrated wherever his spell struck her. Instead, it covers her entire body, because instead of hitting her, like a conjured weapon, the spell drew the life out of her. It used her to bend the will of another. Killing her wasn’t the aim of the spell; her death was the means to another end.”

  “This is sorcerous nonsense!” Caner said. “For all I know, you’re concocting all of this to confound me!”

  Ethan shook his head. “You’re wise enough to know I’m not. I can take that spell off of her. It would take another casting, but I could do it. Then you would be free to examine her for yourself and see that there isn’t a single physical mark on her. But I don’t think I have to. You’ve already seen her. You know that a conjuring killed her. And now you know what kind of a spell it was.”

  The rector regarded him grimly, his lips pressed thin. “The only conjurer that I know of in this city is you, Mister Kaille,” he finally said, the word “conjurer” sounding awkward coming from his mouth. “If she was killed by witchery, chances are you’re the one who did it. I should call for Sheriff Greenleaf right now.”

  “Then do,” Ethan told him. “If you really believe I did it, then you’re right: You should have me hanged. A killing spell…” He faltered, his eyes stinging at the thought of Pitch. “It’s a relatively painless way to die, but it’s murder nevertheless. If I had done this, I would deserve whatever punishment you could imagine. But I didn’t.”

  Caner shook his head fiercely. “You offer no proof! Your denials mean nothing to me. You’re a witch!”

  “I’m a speller who is trying to prevent another tragedy. Consider what I’m telling you, Mister Caner. This girl’s murder had an even darker purpose, just like the other murders this conjurer committed. He used her death to cast another spell. And while I don’t know for sure, I believe that all these murders are connected, that they have some larger purp
ose. That’s why you must trust me, even though I’m a conjurer. I’m the only person who can stop him.”

  Again the minister stared at him; he looked thoroughly unnerved. Which did he fear more: Ethan, or his own ignorance in matters relating to “witchery”?

  “What is it you want me to do?” Caner finally asked, surrender in his voice.

  “Well, you can start by promising that you won’t have me hanged.”

  Caner waved a meaty hand, either dismissing the notion, or accepting it without argument, Ethan wasn’t sure which. “What else?” the rector asked.

  Ethan started to answer, but then stopped, the memory coming to him at last. It hadn’t been his imagination; there had been something. “I need to borrow Mister Pell,” he said.

  Caner narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

  “Yes,” Pell said, his eyes wide with surprise. “What for?”

  Ethan grinned at his friend. “I need to watch two people, and I’m but one man. I told you before that you might make a fine thieftaker. If Mister Caner will grant his permission, we can put that notion to a test.”

  Caner scowled at them both. Pell fairly beamed.

  Chapter

  NINETEEN

  Ethan was more eager than ever to speak with Cyrus Derne, eager enough that he had abandoned any hope of contriving another meeting between himself and the merchant. Derne had decided to use his money and influence to protect himself from Ethan’s questions; Ethan would use his conjuring skill to slip past the men Derne had hired as guards.

  From King’s Chapel, Ethan made his way back to the Derne house on Bennet’s Street to confirm what he already suspected. The chaises were gone. Derne had probably returned to his wharf. Ethan went there next. Along the way, he stopped in a deserted alley and cast the same concealment spell he had used the previous evening while walking from Elli’s house to the Dowsing Rod. Once more he knew that he risked alerting the conjurer to his whereabouts, and if Derne was Jennifer Berson’s killer, the merchant would have no trouble seeing through Ethan’s spell. But he would deal with that when the time came. The casting would at least allow him to get past the guards at the base of Derne’s Wharf, and whatever others the merchant had positioned between the street and the warehouse where he had his office.

  As Ethan walked, he took care to tread softly. This was easy enough on the cobblestones of Boston’s streets, but when Ethan reached Derne’s Wharf, it became far more difficult. Like most of Boston’s wharves, this one was made of fill: solid refuse from shops and homes piled into wooden cribs and covered over with a blend of dirt and sand, of crushed seashells and rock. There wasn’t a man alive who could walk on fill without leaving an imprint with every step. Even after he slipped past the first guards onto the wharf, he had to creep along its edge, constantly watching for anyone who might come too close. Late in the day, he might have been able to reach Derne’s office quickly, but in the middle of the afternoon the wharf was crowded enough that people were constantly walking past in one direction or the other.

  Halfway to Derne’s office he stopped, realizing once more that he had been foolish. He didn’t have to risk venturing farther out onto the wharf. Derne would take care of that for him. The merchant wouldn’t remain in his warehouse forever, and if he had dealings in the city that he wanted to keep from Ethan, chances were he wouldn’t want many others knowing about them, either. Eventually he would leave the building and abandon his escort. There was nothing for Ethan to do but wait.

  He wondered if he might be best off waiting back at the street, where he could pick up Derne’s trail on the cobblestone rather than on this treacherous fill. He had even gone so far as to turn back when he spotted a familiar face coming in his direction. Diver.

  Ethan frowned at the sight of him, wondering whether he would be better off letting his friend pass by, or enlisting Diver’s aid. Diver could go where Ethan could not. He could find out what Derne was doing and who was with him. Except that Diver shouldn’t have been here at all. What business did he have on Derne’s Wharf? He usually worked Greenough’s Shipyard or Thornton’s. If he had been working for Derne he would have told Ethan as much several nights before, when Ethan told him about Jennifer Berson.

  What was more, his friend was behaving oddly. He walked slowly, repeatedly glancing back toward the street, and warily eyeing the hired men ahead of him.

  The memory hit him like Yellow-hair’s fist. The last time Ethan had seen Diver, they had been here, at Derne’s Wharf, or at least on the street just beside it. Ethan had come to question Derne; Diver, he assumed at the time, was merely passing by on his way home from work.

  Diver had acted strangely then, too. At the time, Ethan had been too preoccupied with Jennifer Berson’s murder and his conversation with Derne to give Diver’s behavior much thought, but now it all came back to him: how uncomfortable Diver had been at seeing Ethan there, how reluctant he had been to go to the Dowser, even how interested he had been in Ethan’s conversation with Derne. Was it possible that Diver had business with the merchant?

  He watched as his friend strode past him, and then he set out after him, moving with as much stealth as possible. When Diver reached Derne’s warehouse, he slowed. But then he squared his shoulders, took a breath, and approached the building’s entrance. The men there stopped him and said something Ethan couldn’t hear. Ethan thought for certain that they would keep Diver out. He was dressed in his usual work clothes and he looked far more like a South End tough than he did a merchant.

  After a brief discussion, though, Derne’s men let him pass, and Diver entered the warehouse.

  Ethan was so overcome with curiosity that he started forward to follow his friend inside. What business could Diver—Diver!—have with one of the most influential merchants in Boston? It actually took his glowing ghost throwing out a hand in front of him to keep Ethan from giving himself away.

  “Right,” he whispered. “My thanks.”

  Moments later, his interest in Diver’s affairs took on a far darker urgency. His friend emerged onto the wharf once more, accompanied by none other than Cyrus Derne. The two of them headed back toward the street and several of Derne’s guards fell in behind them. They walked this way for a short distance, but then Derne halted and spoke to one of the men. Their conversation lasted only a few seconds, and when Derne and Diver started away again, none of the others followed.

  Ethan trailed them, walking with some care, but unwilling to risk losing sight of the pair. A few heads turned at the sound of his footsteps, but of course no one could see him. As they came to the end of the wharf, Ethan spotted Derne’s chaise, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing aloud. If they traveled somewhere by carriage, he would have little chance of keeping up.

  But Derne and Diver turned northward onto Ship Street and walked past the chaise. Relieved, Ethan followed. Now that they were back on paved lanes, he could get closer to them. But though he thought he was near enough to hear anything the two men said, they exchanged no words. Ethan had the distinct impression that Derne barely tolerated Diver’s company.

  At the north end of Ship Street, they headed west on another lane. Though his bad leg was starting to ache, Ethan walked quickly to the corner. Carefully he peered around the side of a wheelwright’s shop. Derne and Diver were several strides ahead of him, still unaware of his pursuit. Waiting until they had gone some distance up this new street, Ethan continued after them.

  They hadn’t gone far when two more people turned onto the street some distance ahead of them and started walking in their direction. Ethan slowed, then halted. Uncle Reg stopped as well, watching him, his expression wary. Ethan’s pulse suddenly was racing. Fear, rage, confusion—his emotions were as roiled as a stormy sea. One of the people approaching Derne and Diver was dressed as a merchant, though Ethan didn’t recognize him. He looked a little older than Derne, and he wore a black suit and a tricorn hat. Ethan should have been curious about this man; learning his name or trade might have help
ed him with his inquiry. But he barely spared the merchant a glance. His eyes were drawn to his companion. Sephira Pryce.

  Diver and Derne had halted. When Pryce and her companion reached them, they stopped as well, and the four of them stood speaking, their voices low enough that Ethan couldn’t hear any of what they said.

  He knew there were spells that allowed conjurers to see in the dark and hear far beyond their normal abilities, but he hadn’t learned them. He didn’t even know if they could be cast with blood or if they needed some other source. But at that moment he would have given everything he owned to know how to cast such a spell.

  What was Diver doing with these people? What business did Derne have with Sephira? He reached for his blade, thinking that he might try that spell after all. If it failed, no one would be the wiser.

  And that was when he felt the pulse of a conjuring radiating up through the stones of the lane. A spell that was directed at him.

  He braced himself, expecting an attack. But there was no pain, at least not yet. The spell gently coiled itself around him, like a vine climbing the trunk of a tree. He couldn’t be certain, but forced to guess he would have said that this was a finding spell. And he felt certain that if he were to cast a revealing spell he would see that golden yellow light he had glimpsed in the King’s Chapel crypt. The conjurer had found him.

  Knowing that he hadn’t much time, he ducked back around the corner, away from Diver and the others, and then found a narrow byway. If the conjurer struck at him with the right spell, it would overmaster his concealment charm. The last thing he needed was for Sephira and the conjurer to attack him at the same time.

  Once he was out of sight, he pulled his knife from his belt and pushed up his sleeve. Before he cut himself, though, he remembered the mullein leaves that Janna had given him. Pulling out the pouch he quickly counted out how many remained. Eleven. Three spells, if the castings were to amount to anything. After that he would have nothing but blood to use as a source for his conjurings. He pulled three leaves from the pouch.