Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) (32 page)

Ethan knew that he should have been prepared for this, but still he sighed, closing his eyes against another wave of pain in his back and chest.

“Help him out, lads,” Dalrymple said to the soldiers.

“No.”

Ethan got his feet under him and straightened, gently trying to pull his arms from the soldiers’ grasp. The men looked to the lieutenant colonel, who nodded once. They released him, and Ethan swayed, but remained upright. He staggered to the foul-smelling hole beneath the window and relieved himself at long last. When he had finished, he buttoned his breeches, turned, and walked out of the cell, the two soldiers ahead of him and Dalrymple behind.

The Town House stood less than a city block from the prison. But to Ethan the walk seemed interminable. Every step was agony and though he had hoped that his muscles would loosen as he walked, they didn’t. He hardly saw where he was going and took little note of those who watched him stumble past with his impressive escort. He entered the building in a haze of pain, and somehow managed to climb the marble stairs to the second floor.

Dalrymple and his men escorted him to Hutchinson’s courtroom, pausing just outside the oaken door. The colonel slipped into the chambers, leaving Ethan and the soldiers in the corridor. Ethan said nothing, and the men avoided his gaze. Sooner than Ethan expected, Dalrymple opened the door once more.

“This way,” he said, beckoning Ethan inside.

Ethan hobbled into the courtroom.

Hutchinson looked much as he had a few days earlier. He wrinkled his nose at Ethan’s appearance and then waved Dalrymple toward the door.

The colonel hesitated, glancing toward Ethan before letting himself out of the chamber.

“You’ve been the subject of a good many conversations this morning, Mister Kaille,” Hutchinson said, regarding Ethan over steepled fingers. “I’ve heard from Geoffrey Brower of the Customs Board, as well as Captain Preston, and one of his men—a Jonathan Fowler?—and the ship’s surgeon from the
Launceston.
Doctor Ricker, I believe.”

“Rickman, sir.”

Annoyance flickered in the man’s eyes. “Yes, that’s right. Rickman. I’ve even had a written message championing your cause from no less a personage than the Reverend Henry Caner. Perhaps you’d care to tell me why all these people should be so interested in the arrest of one thieftaker.”

“I think you can answer that question yourself, Your Honor. We’ve spoken of my inquiry; you know the work I’ve been doing on behalf of the Crown.”

“Indeed. I also know that all this ‘work’ has yet to yield any results of consequence.”

“That’s not—”

“In fact,” Hutchinson went on, “as I understand it, another man is dead. Is this true?”

Ethan knew in that moment that he hadn’t been brought here as a precursor to his release. Hutchinson meant to follow through on the threats he had made a few days before. As far as he was concerned, Ethan had already failed.

“Well?” the lieutenant governor said.

“Aye, Your Honor. Simon Gant is dead.”

“And do you know who killed him?”

“I believe he was killed by a man named Caleb Osborne, but I can’t prove that yet.”

“No,” Hutchinson said, his tone dry. “Of course you can’t. As I’m sure you know, Sheriff Greenleaf is quite certain that you are the guilty party.”

“Sheriff Greenleaf is wrong.”

“Sheriff Greenleaf gets results. He speaks of evidence, of motive.” Hutchinson’s glance fell to the fading bruises on Ethan’s jaw. “You have nothing to show for the time I’ve given you. Nothing, that is, save for one more corpse. I’m afraid you’re out of time.”

“No!” Ethan said. “You gave me five days! I still have two in which to find Osborne!”

“Not anymore.”

“You gave me your word!”

“This city is under occupation!” Hutchinson said, his voice echoing through the chamber. “I haven’t the luxury of two days! Already soldiers are deserting, and the Lord knows what Samuel Adams and his mob have in store for us! I need to billet Gage’s men and ruffians continue to occupy the Manufactory! And all the while men are dying, victims of all manner of devilry! You dare to speak of me keeping my word? Damn your two days!”

“And so your solution is to mete out punishment on a whim! To hang men and women who have done nothing wrong, and whose deaths will do nothing to end these killings!”

“What choice do I have? You’re asking me to place my trust in a witch!”

“It is not witchcraft! It is spellmaking—I’m a conjurer—and the mere fact that you don’t understand what I do doesn’t make it wicked! Killing me would be foolhardy. Killing Janna and the others would be criminal!”

Hutchinson’s face had turned crimson. No doubt he was unaccustomed to having people speak to him so. Ethan couldn’t have cared less.

“Well, if not them, perhaps you can give me someone else,” the man said, his voice tight.

“What do you mean?”

“Think, man. What else
would
I mean?”

Ethan was slow to understand, though once it dawned on him what the lieutenant governor was saying, he realized that he should have guessed right away. “You want Adams and Otis,” he said, a sick feeling in his gut. “That’s who you’ve wanted all along.”

“Brower tells me that you met with Samuel Adams the morning the occupation began.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re in our employ. Agents of the Crown came to you seeking your help with this matter of the
Graystone.
And I would like to know why you felt it necessary to seek out the one man in Boston most likely to be behind it all.”

“You’ve answered your own question, Your Honor. How could I not speak with Adams about this, knowing as I did how concerned he would have been about the presence of the fleet in Boston Harbor?”

Hutchinson frowned at this, but he didn’t argue the point. Instead he asked, “And what did you learn from your conversation?”

“That he had nothing to do with what happened to your ship.”

“I think you mean
our
ship. As I recall you were once a navy man yourself, and we are all subjects of His Majesty King George the Third.”

“Of course,” Ethan said.

“So, Adams told you he had done nothing wrong and you took him at his word.”

“Aye. I believe he told me the truth.”

A bark of laughter escaped the lieutenant governor, scornful and dismissive. “Either you’re a hopeless naif, or you’re working with him.”

“I’m neither, sir. I’m trying to find a conjurer. I don’t care about your politics or Sephira Pryce’s treasure hunt or anything else for that matter. I want to solve this mystery, preferably before I’m killed or arrested again. And then I want to be done with it.”

“I’m sure you do. I would enjoy the same, but I can’t relieve myself of responsibilities so easily. The Crown’s enemies are real. They have killed nearly one hundred of the king’s men! And we will have justice!” He pounded his fist on his desk as he said this last, spittle flying from his mouth.

“And your idea of justice includes false accusations against Samuel Adams? Or against Boston’s conjurers, who have done you no harm? What a fine leader you are, Your Honor.”

Hutchinson straightened, a menacing glint in his eyes. “What would you suggest I do?” he asked, biting off each word.

Ethan threw his hands wide, the motion rekindling the pain in his shoulders. “Allow me to my conduct my inquiry! Give me the time you promised me when last we spoke!”

Hutchinson glared at him, and Ethan knew that the lieutenant governor would refuse, that he would call Dalrymple and his soldiers back into the chamber and have Ethan returned to the prison. But Hutchinson surprised him.

“One day,” he said. “No more than that. You have until dawn tomorrow. At that point I will send the king’s men for you and for every witch in Boston.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Ethan didn’t wait to be dismissed. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, cursing the stiffness in his back and legs.

“Mister Kaille.”

He had his hand on the door handle, and he considered leaving without hearing what Hutchinson had to say. But this was the second most powerful man in all of Massachusetts, and there was nothing to stop him from changing his mind. Ethan exhaled and turned.

“Witchcraft or spellmaking—whatever you call it, the power you wield still comes from Satan.”

“That’s your opinion, Your Honor.”

“I suppose you would claim that it comes from God.”

“No, sir. I know for a fact that my abilities come from my mother.” He pulled the door open and walked out.

Chapter

N
INETEEN

One day.

Three days ago, Hutchinson hadn’t given him enough time; not nearly. And now the lieutenant governor had cut his remaining time in half. He couldn’t do this in a single day. But one day was all he had.

It took him several minutes to convince Dalrymple that the lieutenant governor had granted him leave to go, and several more to convince the colonel to return his knife to him. Once he felt the weight of the blade on his belt, he felt a bit more like himself. He was still sore all over, but there was little he could do about that without conjuring, and he didn’t think it wise to start casting spells in the middle of the city after the conversation he had just concluded with Hutchinson.

If convincing Dalrymple to give him back his blade had been difficult, his next task bordered on the impossible. Ethan, though, had no choice but to try.

Stephen Greenleaf lived on West Street, near the Common, in a large stone mansion that was far more luxurious than the man deserved. The gardens surrounding his house were lush and had been tended to with such care over the years that they had become renowned throughout the city. Like the understated elegance of Sephira Pryce’s home, Ethan found the sheriff’s gardens curiously at odds with all that he had gleaned about the man from their many encounters. In the past, he had admired the sheriff’s home from afar, but on this morning, Ethan walked up to his door and rapped on it with the brass knocker.

An African man opened the door and stared out at him. He had white hair and wore a linen suit of pale blue. Pausing to look at Ethan’s clothes, he frowned.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’m looking for the sheriff. Can you please tell him that Ethan Kaille is here?”

“Sheriff Greenleaf is busy just now. You’ll have to come back later.”

“Please tell him I’m here,” Ethan said. “He’ll be eager to see me. Again, my name is Kaille.”

The man looked like he might argue, his eyes dropping once more to Ethan’s grimy breeches, and coat. “Wait here,” he said, and closed the door.

Ethan stood for several minutes, staring at the white door and its lion’s-head knocker. After a while he began to stretch his arms and shoulders, and to walk in small circles to keep his legs from stiffening once more. He thought he could hear voices within, and footsteps, but still no one came to the door. He began to wonder if he had been foolish to come here, and as a precaution he pulled out his last two leaves of mullein, and held them concealed in the curl of his left hand.

When next he heard footsteps within the house, they were far clearer than they had been before. And so he wasn’t completely caught off guard when the door was flung open, revealing Greenleaf with a flintlock pistol in hand, its barrel aimed at Ethan’s forehead.

“If you so much as blink, I’ll put a hole in your skull!” Greenleaf said, snarling like a cur.

“I’m just standing here, Sheriff.” He tried to keep his voice level and calm, but he wouldn’t have put it past the man to kill him. The hand holding the mullein was already slick with sweat. Ethan feared that at the first mutterings of a spell, Greenleaf would splatter his brains on the stone portico.

“What are you doing here? What sort of devilry did you use to escape my gaol?”

“No devilry at all. Colonel Dalrymple came for me at first light and took me to the Town House. Hutchinson has given me a day to find Gant’s killer.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Not at all,” Ethan said, his gaze flicking between the barrel of the pistol and the sheriff’s face. “It’s the truth. You have only to ask one of them.”

“Thomas Hutchinson—the lieutenant governor. Do you really expect me to believe that he let you go free?”

“It’s true. He threatened to have me hanged as a witch if I didn’t find Gant’s killer.” When Greenleaf neither responded nor lowered the weapon, Ethan added, “Dalrymple didn’t believe me at first when I told him that Hutchinson had granted my release. But I convinced him. He gave me back my blade. It’s on my belt right now.”

“So, the lieutenant governor sent you off to find the killer and thus save your skin, and you came here. Why? For revenge?”

“For help,” Ethan said. “To ask you, as I did yesterday, to let me see Gant’s body.”

That seemed to reach the man. He regarded Ethan through narrowed eyes, and an instant later lowered the hand holding his pistol. Ethan closed his eyes and swallowed. He had seen more firearms in the past few days than he cared to recall.

“I remember you asking me,” Greenleaf said. “Why are you so eager to see Gant?”

Ethan hesitated, unsure of how much he wished to reveal. “There are ways for me to determine what killed him,” he said, trying to keep his answer as vague as possible. “And perhaps even who.”

“More witchcraft,” the sheriff said, his voice flat.

“Several times now, you’ve accused me of magicking, and yet you’ve never seen me do anything of the kind, have you?”

“I have a keen memory, Kaille. I recall the tales of what transpired aboard the
Ruby Blade.
There was talk then of you consorting with the devil himself and using witchery to bend men to your will. And since the day you returned to Boston, that talk has continued to dog your every step. This isn’t rumor. You’re a witch. And you won’t convince me otherwise just because you’ve managed to confine your mischief to shadows and alleys beyond my sight.”

They glowered at each other, Greenleaf still holding his pistol, Ethan with the mullein concealed in his hand.