Dead Man's Reach (3 page)

The door to Will's room opened and closed, and boots scraped on the landing outside the room and then on the snow-dusted stairway. Seconds later, Sephira joined them on the street, her black cloak draped over her shoulders.

“He's awake,” she said.

What little light reached that corner of the street came from Will's window, above and behind Sephira. It made a halo of her shining curls and left her face in shadow.

“And?” Ethan asked.

She shrugged. “And he seems perfectly normal, or at least as normal as Gordon gets. He remembers pummeling the noddy, but he can't recall what set him off, nor can he explain why he wouldn't stop. He keeps apologizing to me for ignoring my order to stop, but when I ask him why he did it, he merely shakes his head and tells me again that he's sorry.”

Ethan wasn't sure what to make of this, and to make matters worse, he wasn't entirely certain whether he could trust what she told him. She had no reason to lie about the episode, but his mistrust of her ran deep, and old habits were not so easily broken.

“Do you think that if he saw Will, he would try again to attack him?”

“I don't know,” Sephira said. “I don't think we should take that chance.”

Mariz looked up. “I agree.”

“How is he?” Sephira asked.

“Another blow or two and I expect he would have died,” Ethan said. “As it is, he won't be doing much thieving for a while.”

“Then, I suppose some good came of this.”

He couldn't tell if she was joking.

“If you'll take Gordon back to your home, Mariz and I will return Will to his bed.”

“Yes, all right.” She started to turn away, but stopped herself. “I believe you and I have more to discuss.”

“No, we don't, Sephira. You'll be watching me, I know. And you'll be displeased if I take on other wealthy clients. I've heard it before.”

“Very well, Ethan. But one day, after you've once again ignored my warnings, you'll find that my patience has run out. When that happens, you'll have no one to blame but yourself.” She looked at Mariz. “When you're done here, return to the house. I have more questions for you.”

“Of course,
Senhora
.”

She climbed the stairs to Will's room and called to Nap and Afton from the doorway. Ethan and Mariz moved Pryor a short distance down the lane, so that Gordon wouldn't see the lad as he left. Once Sephira and the others were gone, they carried Will back up to his room.

“You did not answer my question before,” Mariz said, as they settled the pup on his bed. “Do you still believe Gordon acted under the influence of a conjuring?”

“I don't know. It was all rather strange, and everything happened quickly. If only one of us had felt a conjuring and seen that light, I'd be willing to dismiss it as coincidence, or something imagined. But both of us…” He draped a blanket over Will and straightened. “Sephira is going to ask you the same question. What will you tell her?”

“That I am unsure of what I saw and what I sensed. That my spell indicated no conjuring had been used against Gordon. And that I am convinced you had nothing to do with whatever happened to him.”

“You've told me in the past that our friendship has made Sephira and her other men less trusting of you. Is that still so?”

“It is,” Mariz said. “She does not like you, Kaille. And yet she speaks of you with more respect than you might think. I believe if she had her way, you would be working for her, not I. Yours is an odd relationship.”

“Aye. That much I know.” He proffered a hand, which Mariz gripped. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Ethan gestured toward Will. “For helping me heal him. And for telling Sephira that I wasn't responsible for the spell.”

“I believe I suggested first that you were.”

“Aye, that you did. But I probably would have done the same.”

They let themselves out of the room and closed the door behind them.

At the bottom of the stairway, they parted ways. Ethan intended to go to the Dowsing Rod, the tavern on Sudbury Street where he spent much of his time. First, however, he walked through Cornhill to Marlborough Street and turned southward. At the corner of Winter Street, he turned up a small walkway and followed it to the door of a modest house with a gabled roof. Candles shone in the windows, and pale gray smoke rose from the chimney. Ethan rapped on the door with the simple brass knocker.

The man who opened the door was tall, though his shoulders were stooped. He had deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, and long, powdered hair that he wore in a plait.

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you so late in the evening, Doctor Church. My name is Ethan Kaille—”

“Ah, yes! The thieftaker who doesn't wish to be associated with Samuel Adams or the Sons of Liberty.”

Ethan offered a wan smile. “I'm surprised that you remember, sir. It's been some time.”

Several months before, as Ethan tried to rid Boston of Nate Ramsey and his army of wraiths, he was summoned to the Green Dragon tavern by Samuel Adams. There he met with Adams, Benjamin Church, James Otis, Joseph Warren, and Paul Revere, who thanked Ethan for conjuring attacks on warehouses belonging to merchants who had not honored the nonimportation agreements. These agreements, which were intended to halt the sale in Boston of British goods, were the work of Adams and his allies, who believed that Ethan had thrown in with their cause at long last. But Ethan had nothing to do with the attacks; it turned out they were Ramsey's doing. And at that meeting, as on previous occasions, Ethan refused to join with Adams and his allies in their struggle against the Crown.

“Yes, well,” Church said. “It's not every day that one meets a man with the gumption to say no to Samuel.” He stood to the side and waved Ethan into the house.

Ethan removed his hat and entered. It was blessedly warm within; a hearty blaze burned in the hearth.

“If I remember,” the doctor went on, “that was not our first meeting. Trevor Pell brought you to me some years ago. You had been beaten and shot, but most of your wounds had already been healed with what some might call witchcraft.”

Ethan recalled that evening vividly as well. Sephira and a large retinue of her toughs had taken Ethan out to the Common, fully intent on killing him. Only the timely intervention of Reverend Pell, with the unwitting cooperation of Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf, had saved Ethan's life. He had healed the worst of his wounds with spells, and while Dr. Church had been surprised by this, his response had been notably measured. This was why Ethan had come to the doctor tonight.

He took a breath and faced the doctor. “Aye, sir. That's my memory as well. Again, I'm flattered that you have such clear recollections of our encounters.”

“Can I offer you some wine or something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

Church looked Ethan up and down. “You appear to be in a far better state this evening than you were that night. Is this a social visit then?”

“No, sir. There's a lad who lives above a farrier's shop on Lindal's Lane. His name is Will Pryor. He's taken a terrible beating, and while I've done what I can to heal the worst of his wounds, I was hoping you might go to him in the morning and make certain that he's on the mend. I would pay you, of course.”

“I see,” Church said, his voice hardening. “And were you responsible for the beating?”

“No, I wasn't.”

“Then why would you pay me?”

“Because I wasn't able to prevent the assault, and because my ability to care for the lad is limited.”

The doctor considered him. “Very well, Mister Kaille. I'll go to him first thing tomorrow.”

“I'd be most grateful, sir. How much shall I pay you?”

“One and ten should be enough.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes. “One shilling, ten pence. That's all?”

Church lifted his shoulders, a small grin tugging at his lips. “It sounds as though you've already done most of my work for me.”

“But surely—”

“It's all right, Mister Kaille.” He gestured in a manner that encompassed the whole of the sitting room. It was comfortably furnished, its appointments tasteful if not lavish. A pair of upholstered chairs stood near the hearth, and a sofa sat along the far wall, before a low oaken table. “As you see, I'm not about to go hungry.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ethan pulled out his worn leather purse, removed the coins, and handed them to the doctor. “There you are.”

Church pocketed the money without bothering to count it.

Ethan started back toward the door. “I'll leave you to enjoy your evening.”

“Pryor, you said?” the doctor asked, following him.

“Aye. Will Pryor. On Lindal's Lane.”

“Above the farrier's shop.”

“Just so. Again, my thanks.”

After the doctor saw him out, Ethan turned once more onto Marlborough Street and followed it toward the Dowser, satisfied that he had done what he could for Will.

As had been his habit since the beginning of the British occupation of Boston in the fall of 1768, Ethan followed a somewhat roundabout route to the Dowser so that he would not pass too close to the intersection of Brattle Street and Hillier's Lane, where the regulars of the Twenty-ninth Regiment were billeted.

Still, Ethan could not avoid entirely the British military presence in the city. Regulars patrolled the streets night and day, and with tensions rising, everywhere they went they encountered the taunts of young men inflamed by drink or simply the folly of youth.

Walking on Treamount Street, he could hear cries of “Damn the king and his men!” and “You have no business here, you bloody bastards!” aimed at the soldiers stationed a block away near the Town House. He heard as well the usual insults: “red herring,” “lobsters,” “thieving dogs,” “bloody-backed scoundrels.” Each time he was abroad in the streets, he expected these jeers to be met with the report of a musket, but miraculously—so far—the city had been spared that sort of tragedy. He didn't approve of the occupation, and he had long since stopped referring to himself as a loyalist, or a Tory, as men of such thinking were called. But there could be no denying that thus far the soldiers had demonstrated remarkable forbearance.

Treamount met Sudbury Street a bit north of where the soldiers were based, and from there it was but a short walk to the Dowsing Rod.

Upon entering the tavern, Ethan was greeted by the usual savory aromas. Kannice Lester, the tavern's proprietor, and Ethan's lover for nearly seven years, made the finest stews and chowders in all of Boston. Tonight, she was serving the fish chowder; Ethan could smell the cod, as well as the bay and thyme Kannice used in her recipe. The aroma of the chowder was overlaid with the scents of fresh-baked bread and roasting chestnuts.

The air within the tavern's great room was warm and welcoming. A thin haze of pale pipe smoke hung over the tables and chairs, and the incomprehensible din of laughter and dozens of conversations brought a smile to Ethan's lips. He rented a room above Henry Dall's cooperage on Cooper's Alley in the South End, but for years now, this tavern had been as much a home as he'd ever known.

He crossed to the bar, squeezing past the wharfmen and shipwrights who sipped ales while trading stories and jests, and caught the eye of Kelf Fingarin, Kannice's mountain of a barman.

“Good evenin', Ethan,” Kelf said, as always running his words together in a rapid jumble.

“Well met, Kelf. I'll have the Kent pale, and a bowl of the chowder.”

“Ale'll be right up. Chowder should be out in a few minutes.”

Ethan dropped a half shilling into the man's massive hand.

Kelf nodded toward the back of the great room as he filled Ethan's tankard with the Kentish pale ale Ethan preferred. “Diver's in his usual spot, with Deborah. I'll bring the chowder to you.”

“All right. Where's Kannice?”

Kelf reddened to the tips of his ears. “She's in back cookin'.” Abruptly the barman wouldn't look Ethan in the eye.

“I take it she's still angry.”

“I mind my own bus'ness, Ethan. You know that about me.” Kelf placed the tankard in front of him.

Ethan grinned, though it took some effort. “That would be a yes, then.”

“Not for nothin', but I happen to think she's right about this.”

“I never said she wasn't. All I said was, a cove's got to work, and times being as they are I can't be turning down any jobs. You understand that, don't you?”

Kelf's crooked grin conveyed more than a bit of sympathy. “Aye. But she can be hard sometimes. You know that as well as anyone.”

“Aye.” Ethan took his ale. “My thanks, Kelf.” He pushed away from the bar and waded through the throng toward the back wall of the tavern, where his friend Diver—Devren Jervis—usually sat.

As he wound past tables of workers and artisans drinking flips or Madeira wine, and eating oysters and chowder, he saw many faces he recognized. Kannice's fine cooking had earned her a loyal clientele. But though most of these men had seen Ethan here day after day, few of them offered anything by way of greeting; most refused to make eye contact.

For as much as they cared for Kannice, they thought the worst of Ethan. He supposed they had cause.

As a young man, about the age of Will Pryor, he had put out to sea as second mate aboard the
Ruby Blade
, a privateering vessel. The initial legs of the ship's voyage went poorly, and before long the first mate, a silver-tongued ruffian named Allen Foster, had talked much of the crew, including Ethan, into mutinying. Somehow Foster had learned that Ethan was a speller, and he convinced him to use his conjuring abilities on their behalf. Only after the captain and his supporters had been subdued did Ethan come to realize that Foster was cruel and arbitrary, a worse commander by far than the captain had been. Ethan freed the captain and helped him retake the ship.