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  Ethan Kaille could count on one hand the number of times in recent years he had refused an ale in favor of some stronger spirit. He rarely had enough coin for anything more than the cheap ales that came out of Boston’s local breweries, and even when he did, he usually preferred the pale ales of Kent to whiskey or rum. But December had brought gray skies and frigid winds to the New England colonies, and even the fine fish chowder served here in the Dowsing Rod, a tavern on Sudbury Street, wasn’t enough to ward off the chill.

  With a cup of hot rum warming his hands, however, and several sips of the toddy already heating his belly, Ethan could convince himself that winter’s advance had been slowed, at least for the evening.

  Most of the tavern’s patrons sat or stood in a tight arc around the hearth, where a bright fire blazed. They laughed and told stories; a few sang songs like “Ye Good Fellows All” and “Preach Not to Me Your Musty Rules.” Ethan, though, kept to himself. A few of the others might have welcomed him, but most knew him to be a convict and thought of him as a troublemaker and an unrepentant mutineer. A few might even have known that he was a conjurer.

  On the other hand, the tavern’s owner, a young widow named Kannice Lester, had lately taken an interest in him, and he in her. As he sat watching the men by the fire and chuckling to himself at their poor singing, Kannice brought him a second bowl of chowder. He hadn’t asked for it.

  “I thought you might enjoy a bit more,” she said, placing it in front of him. “What with the others hogging the fire and all.”

  “Thank you.”

  She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and gestured at the empty chair opposite his. “May I sit for a moment?”

  He grinned at that. “I believe it’s your tavern, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, it is.” She sat, rested an elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. “You’re an odd man, Ethan Kaille.”

  “Am I?”

  She nodded. “You keep apart from the others, as if you don’t want any company. Yet you come in here night after night, when you could just as easily be alone, which is what you seem to prefer.”

  He leaned forward, his gaze holding hers. Her eyes were periwinkle blue, and when she smiled a small crease dimpled her cheek, just to the right of her lips.

  “Maybe I don’t want their company,” he said, nodding toward the fire. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want any company at all.”

  Her smile deepened, but she didn’t blush. Thinking about it, he wasn’t sure he had ever seen her blush. He liked that about her.

  “Well, if I hear of anyone who’s also looking for company, I’ll be sure to point them in your direction.”

  Ethan chuckled. “Thank you.”

  She pushed back from his table and stood. “Let me know when you’re ready for another rum.”

  Before she could turn away, the tavern door opened, and three men entered, their woolen greatcoats and tricorn hats coated with a fine dusting of snow. Ethan didn’t recognize two of the men. The third he would have known anywhere: Stephen Greenleaf, sheriff of Suffolk County.

  Greenleaf was an imposing man, tall, solidly built. He commanded no army, no militia, no constabulary force of any kind. Yet he managed to keep some semblance of peace here in Boston. Usually such an achievement would have been enough to earn Ethan’s respect, perhaps even his friendship. But in the two years since Ethan had established himself as one of the city’s leading thieftakers, the sheriff had made it clear to anyone else who would listen that he neither trusted Ethan nor saw him as a legitimate rival to Sephira Pryce, Boston’s most famous and successful thieftaker. In private, Greenleaf had told Ethan that he remembered all too well the Ruby Blade mutiny and Ethan’s role in it. He also recalled the rumors of “witchery” that circulated at the time of Ethan’s conviction.

  “I think what they say about you is true, Kaille,” the sheriff had told him one night this past spring, after Ethan had managed to retrieve gems stolen from the wife of one of Boston’s shipbuilders. “I think you are a witch. I can’t prove it, yet. But at the first hint of devilry, I’ll have you in shackles so fast you won’t even know what happened.”

  Ethan walked away from the man, but not before asking Greenleaf, in as light a tone as he could muster, “But Sheriff, if I am a witch, what makes you think that shackles can hold me?”

  Ethan had enjoyed the moment, but his remark served only to make the sheriff more suspicious of him. He had enough trouble trying to compete with Pryce and her toughs, who always seemed to be honing in on his jobs; the last thing he needed was Greenleaf dogging his every step. The truth was that Ethan relied on his spellmaking—his “witchery”—to help him recover stolen goods that other thieftakers couldn’t.

  He regarded the sheriff’s appearance here in the Dowsing Rod as an ill omen.

  Still standing by the door, Greenleaf spotted Ethan, muttered something to his companions, and strode toward Ethan’s table. Kannice glanced quickly at Ethan before placing herself directly in the sheriff’s path.

  Small and willowy, she looked like a child beside him. Still, her voice remained steady as she said, “Good evening Sheriff Greenleaf. Care for a bowl of chowder? Or perhaps a flip and some oysters?”

  “No,” he said, sounding impatient. “I’ve come for a word with Kaille.”

  “Well, he’s eating.”

  Ethan suppressed a grin.

  “Fine then. Chowder and an ale.”

  “And you gentlemen?” Kannice asked the sheriff’s companions.

  Both men had unbuttoned their coats, revealing silk shirts and woolen suits with matching jackets, waistcoats, and breeches-—ditto suits, as many in Boston called them. Ethan guessed that they were merchants.

  One of the men shook his head in response to Kannice’s question. “Nothing for me.”

  The other man, the more portly of the two, said, “I think I’ll have a brandy, and some of that stew might warm me up.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kannice cast another quick look Ethan’s way, winked once, then walked behind the bar and into the Dowser’s kitchen.

  Greenleaf approached Ethan’s table, the merchants in tow. “May we join you, Mister Kaille?”

  “Of course,” Ethan said without enthusiasm.

  The portly man lowered himself into the chair in which Kannice had been sitting and leaned his walking cane against the table. Greenleaf and the other man pulled over chairs from a nearby table and sat as well.

  “This is Deron Forrs,” Greenleaf said, indicating the portly man. “And this is Isaac Keller.” The sheriff nodded toward Ethan. “Ethan Kaille, gentlemen.”

  Ethan shook hands with both men.

  “Mister Kaille is the thieftaker I’ve been telling you about. I believe he may be able to help you with your…your problem.”

  Forrs and Keller shared a look. After a brief silence, Forrs turned to Ethan.

  “I’m a merchant, Mister Kaille. Both of us are. I’m not a wealthy man—nor is Mister Keller—but neither of us wants for much. I trade in coal from Louisburg and Newcastle, and in wood from Penobscot. As you can imagine, this time of year I’m
reasonably busy. Mister Keller deals in ironware from Norfolk and Plymouth—axes, tools, locks, that sort of thing.”

  He started to say more, then broke off as Kannice and Kelf Fingarin, her massive barman, brought them their food and drinks. When they had returned to the bar, Forrs continued.

  “For some time we did business with a merchant captain named Nathaniel Ramsey. He owned a vessel, the Muirenn, and made a good living for himself sailing the waters of New England.”

  “You say you did business with him,” Ethan said. “You don’t anymore?”

  The merchant’s eyes flicked toward Keller.

  “Ramsey died several months ago,” Keller said. “His son, Nate Ramsey, now captains the Muirenn.”

  “He’s not the sailor his father was,” Forrs added. “Nor the businessman.”

  Ethan shifted in his chair. “Forgive me for interrupting, gentlemen, but I know little about commerce. I’m a thieftaker; I recover stolen items for a fee. Has one of you been robbed?”

  “No,” Forrs said. “Nothing like that. But I do believe that you can help us. You see, before Nathaniel died, he accused Mister Keller and me of stealing from him, a charge that his son has repeated in the months since. Indeed, he has gone so far as to threaten us if we don’t make restitution.”

  “What do they believe you stole?”

  “Money,” Keller said. “Nathaniel believed that we owed him money for several transactions. We, of course, know that we didn’t. But he insisted that we had cheated him, and after his death his son repeated these slanders. Now, as Mister Forrs has said, he has made threats against us.”

  Ethan looked at Greenleaf and found that the sheriff was already watching him, his spoon poised over the bowl before him.

  “I’m afraid I still don’t see how I can help you,” Ethan told the merchants. “Your dispute with the Ramseys is over a matter of trade. I concern myself with theft and crimes of the street, not transactions on the wharves.”

  Forrs frowned. “Sheriff Greenleaf, you led us to—”

  “Tell him the rest,” Greenleaf said.

  Neither of the merchants said a word.

  “What does he mean?” Ethan asked.

  Forrs removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his upper lip. “There were rumors about Nathaniel. Some said that he could…do things. A few went so far as to say that he engaged in witchcraft.”

  Ethan sat back in his chair and looked once more at the sheriff. Greenleaf returned his gaze steadily. Of course. This matter had nothing to do thieftaking and everything to do with the fact that Ethan was a conjurer.

  “I take it the son is a speller as well,” Ethan said.

  Keller nodded. “He’s never admitted it in so many words, but his threats to us have hinted at such things. He speaks of burning us alive, of killing us in our sleep, of inflicting all manner of violence upon us. And he claims there is nothing we can do to save ourselves. ‘No distance is too great,’ he says. ‘No lock is too strong, no walls too thick. No matter where you hide, I can reach you.’” Keller shuddered visibly. “I’m not easily cowed, Mister Kaille. But I’m not above admitting that this man frightens me.”

  Ethan faced Greenleaf once more. “And what made you think that I could help these men?”

  Greenleaf hesitated. “I’ve heard tales about you, too, Kaille,” he finally said, talking around the chunk of fish he’d been chewing. “There are those who say you know something of the dark arts, and of those who dabble in them. I thought that perhaps you could make some inquiries.”

  Ethan had half a mind to refuse. After two years of harrying him, of threatening again and again to have him hanged as a witch, the sheriff now had the nerve to come here, hat in hand, asking for help of this sort? He wanted to laugh at the man, drink the rest of his rum, and leave.

  It occurred to him, though, that by helping the merchants he would be putting the sheriff in his debt. Plus, he would be paid. As much as he disliked Greenleaf, he was able to recognize a profitable business opportunity when it presented itself.

  “I take it, Sheriff, that no one involved in this inquiry will have anything to fear from you, even if that person engages in spellmaking on the merchants’ behalf.”

  Greenleaf’s mouth twitched, but he nodded. “I give you my word.”

  Ethan stifled a grin. The merchants must have paid Greenleaf for his trouble, but still, Ethan could see that it galled the man to come to him in this way. All the more reason to take the job.

  “As I’ve told you,” Ethan said to the merchants, “this isn’t the sort of work I usually do. But under the circumstances, I might be of service. Exactly what is it you would like me to do?”

  “Find out what he wants from us,” Forrs said. “We’ve asked him how we can settle this matter to our mutual satisfaction, but the pup simply responds with more threats. We want you to convince him that we are now under your protection, and that any attempt to do us harm will not only fail, but will also result in injury to himself.” The merchant paused, his brow creasing. “Nathaniel was not a well man at the end. I believe he imagined wrongs and twisted common business practices into foul offenses. In his conversations with his son he must have portrayed Mister Keller and me as the worst sort of villains.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now I won’t allow myself to be held hostage to the delusions of an ill man, but I’m also not insensitive to the young man’s loss. I’m willing to pay a reasonable sum if doing so will end this ugliness.”

  “And you’d like me to convey this message to Captain Ramsey as well.”

  “Precisely. You are authorized to negotiate on our behalf, in consultation with the two of us, of course.” Forrs produced a leather pouch from his coat pocket and placed it on the table in front of Ethan. The pouch’s contents jangled softly. “That is ten pounds. When this matter is concluded and the younger Ramsey has forsworn his misplaced vengeance, you’ll receive fifteen more. Is that satisfactory?”

  Ethan picked up the pouch, heard the muffled ring of the coins, felt their heft. After a few seconds he slipped the pouch into his pocket. “Yes, it is,” he said. “Do you know if the Muirenn is currently in port?”

  “She docked at Wentworth’s Wharf this afternoon,” Forrs said.

  “Very well. I’ll speak with Captain Ramsey first thing tomorrow morning.”

  For the first time since their conversation began, Forrs smiled. Keller merely nodded, but he looked relieved as well.

  The two merchants pushed back from the table, their chairs scraping on the wooden floor. Standing, Forrs extended his hand to Ethan.

  “Thank you, Mister Kaille.”

  Ethan shook hands with each of the men in turn. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have news. Where can I find you?”

  “We both have warehouses on Tileston’s Wharf,” Forrs said. “We’re there most days.”

  “Very well. I expect you’ll hear from me soon.”

  Greenleaf had stood as well, but he gave no indication that he was ready to leave. Both men nodded to him.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, nodding in return.

  Forrs and Keller left the tavern.

  Ethan eyed the sheriff briefly before sitting once more. Greenleaf lowered himself into his chair and took another spoonful of chowder.

  “So you’ll threaten to have me hanged as a witch,” Ethan said. “But when it suits your needs you’ll have me use whatever powers you believe I possess on behalf of your wealthy friends.”

  The sheriff considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yes,” he said, and spooned more stew into his mouth.

  Ethan couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.” Sobering, he asked, “Do you believe Nate Ramsey is a speller?”

  “I don’t know. If I could determine such things for certain, you probably would have swung years ago.” Greenleaf flashed a grin. “How’s that for honesty?”

  Ethan’s laugh this time was drier. He finished his toddy and stood.
“I think I’d best be going.”

  “If he is a speller,” Greenleaf said, looking up at him, “will you do as Forrs and Keller have asked?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I’m just wondering if perhaps your loyalty lies more with your own kind than with a couple of merchants.”

  “I’m loyal to my family and friends,” Ethan said. “As for the rest, I’m a businessman, just like Forrs and Keller. They paid me to do a job, so that’s what I’ll do. Goodnight, Sheriff.”

  Greenleaf said nothing, but reached for his ale.

  Ethan took his greatcoat off the back of his chair and strode toward the door. As he passed the bar, he noticed Kannice watching him from the entrance to the kitchen. He slowed and sketched a small bow, drawing a dimpled smile. Shrugging on his coat, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the wintry air.

  The distance from the Dowsing Rod, on the edge of the West End, to his room above Dall’s Cooperage on Cooper’s Alley, in the heart of the South End, was barely more than a half mile. But with a hard wind whipping through the streets of Boston and scything through his coat and clothing, it seemed much farther. For nearly fifteen years, Ethan had walked with a limp, the result of an injury he suffered during his imprisonment and forced labor on a sugar plantation in Barbados. These raw New England nights always made the pain in his leg worse.

  Upon reaching his room, he found that the fire in his stove had long since burned itself out, and the water sitting in a cast-iron pot atop the stove had frozen solid. Being a conjurer had its advantages, though, not least among them the ease with which he could start a fire on a cold night in December. Ethan piled fresh wood in the stove. Then he pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt, pushed up his sleeve, and cut his forearm.

  “Ignis ex cruore evocatus,” he said in Latin. Fire, conjured from blood.

  Power thrummed in the floor and walls as if God himself had plucked a harp string. At the same time, a ghostly figure appeared in the room just beside the stove. He was tall, dour; he was dressed in chain mail and a tabard bearing the three lions of Britain’s medieval kings. His short hair and trim beard might have been white had he not glowed with a deep russet hue, the color of a rising autumn moon. Ethan thought it likely that this was the shade of one of his ancient ancestors on his mother’s side. The spirit, who appeared each time Ethan conjured, enabling him to draw upon the power dwelling between the living world and the realm of the dead, had always reminded Ethan of Reginald, his mother’s splenetic brother. So, Ethan called him Uncle Reg.