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The Price of Doing Business
By D. B. Jackson, Chris McGrath Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2014 D.B. Jackson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-6566-2
CHAPTER 1
Ethan Kaille eyed the tavern door, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the worn wood of the table at which he sat. He had arrived early at the Crane's Roost, a publick house on North Street in Boston's North End, but he felt certain that by now the appointed time for his meeting had come and gone. Knowing how important this job could be for him, Ethan had put on his cleanest linen shirt and his finest waistcoat and matching breeches. But the shirt had fit him better in the days just after his release from prison, when he was so emaciated that he feared the parchment-thin skin over his ribs might tear. And though the waistcoat and breeches might have looked better than his usual clothes, wearing them made him feel like a fop.
The man he was waiting for, a merchant named Aubrey Heap, lived nearby on Princes Street and had a small warehouse on Verin's Wharf. Whether he had been home or at his place of business, he wouldn't have needed to travel far to reach the Roost.
But Ethan had yet to see anyone who looked like a merchant enter the tavern. Several wharfmen and a few joiners, their shirts still covered with sawdust, had straggled in since his arrival, most of them congregating at the bar to eat oysters and drink ales. A short while before, several craftsmen — shipwrights probably, given the proximity to the tavern of so many of Boston's largest shipyards — had entered the Roost and taken a table near his. They were now eating stew and drinking flips; they ignored him.
No one would have counted Heap among the most successful or influential of Boston's merchants; next to men like Thomas Hancock and Abner Berson, Heap seemed of little consequence. But while Ethan had plied his trade as a thieftaker for the better part of a year, he had so far worked only for men of middling means, like Henry Dall, the cooper from whom he rented his room. If Heap — Mister Heap — decided to hire Ethan, he would be far and away the wealthiest client for whom Ethan had worked in his new profession.
Feeling uneasy, he shifted in his seat and considered getting himself an ale. He immediately thought better of it. Mister Heap would want to see that he was sober and responsible. He smoothed his waistcoat, and settled back once more, still eyeing the door.
The message delivered to Ethan at his room on Cooper's Alley had been quite specific about the time and place of their meeting, but vague on the particulars of the inquiry Mister Heap wanted Ethan to conduct. As a thieftaker, Ethan recovered stolen items and returned them to their rightful owners for a fee. It could be dangerous work, but after nearly fourteen years as a convict, toiling under a blazing sun on a sugar plantation in Barbados, there were few other lines of work open to him. He had some skill with a blade and with his fists, and though few knew it, he was also a conjurer who could cast spells that made thieftaking just a bit easier and less risky.
He knew of no spells, though, that could speed a man to an appointment for which he was late.
He had just made up his mind to buy himself an ale — sobriety be damned! — when the door opened again and a wisp of a man, half a head shorter than Ethan and as slight as a child, entered the tavern. He paused at the door, surveyed the great room. Spotting Ethan, he faltered, glanced around one last time, and then started toward the table. Ethan stood.
"Mister Heap?" Ethan said.
"Mister Kaille." The man smiled and extended a hand. Despite his diminutive stature, his grip was firm.
They both sat, and Heap leaned forward resting his hands on the table, palms down. His beige silk suit, and his powdered wig, plaited in back, marked him as a man of some means. His face was youthful, his brow smooth, his eyes a clear bright blue. Ethan guessed that he was in his late thirties.
"Thank you for meeting me, Mister Kaille. I apologize for being late."
"Not at all, sir. Your message indicated that you've recently had property pinched from your home."
The merchant frowned, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward. "Pinched?" he said. "Is that a term used in the streets?"
"Aye. Forgive me."
"You needn't apologize, Mister Kaille. It sounds rather more exciting than simply saying that we were robbed."
"Yes, sir. Can you tell me what was taken?"
"Mostly items of a personal nature. A gold watch that had belonged to my wife's father, two brooches made with small diamonds and emeralds, a set of hair combs made of ivory and gold, and ..." The merchant's cheeks shaded to red. "Well, several bottles of ... of French wine."
Ethan schooled his features. With war still raging between France and the British Empire, the sale of any French products, including wines, was illegal in the colonies. Unless those bottles were several years old, chances were they had been smuggled into Boston. Judging from Mister Heap's obvious discomfort, Ethan assumed that he had acquired them recently.
"The wine is nothing," Heap said. "The bottles were rather dear, but they're of little importance. The other items, however, are a different matter. The watch especially is of great sentimental value to my wife."
"Yes, sir. Do you have any idea who might have stolen these treasures from you?"
"As it happens, I do. I've no proof, mind you. But there was a man — a laborer who did some work for us this past autumn. Our home was built originally by my grandfather, and after all these years, the hearths in two of our bed chambers had fallen into disrepair. This man represented himself as a trained mason, although I'm now convinced that this was a ruse. His workmanship was poor, and he spent far too much time lavishing his attentions on my elder daughter, who of course did all she could to spurn his advances."
"Do you remember the man's name?"
"Edwin Randle," Heap said. "He called himself 'Ned.' I don't know where he lives, but he's a tall man, red hair, ruddy complexion. He has a scar on his chin." Heap placed a finger just to the right of the shallow cleft in his own chin. "Right here."
"Thank you, sir. That should be quite helpful."
"So, do you think you might be able to retrieve what we've lost? I approached another thieftaker about this, but was told that the jewelry was probably already beyond our reach, sold to one who deals in pilfered goods."
Ethan frowned at this. "Who told you that?"
"A thieftaker of some renown — a woman. Sephira Pryce."
"Sephira Pryce told you your property couldn't be retrieved?"
"Yes. Do you know her?"
Ethan sat back in his chair. "By reputation," he said. Perhaps he should have told the man more, but at the moment he was too bewildered.
Sephira Pryce, the so-called Empress of the South End, was the most notorious and successful thieftaker in Boston, perhaps in all the colonies. She was said to be beautiful, charming, and utterly ruthless. Some also said -- though always in whispers -- that while she managed to find most every stolen item she sought, this was only because the men who worked for her were responsible for the lion's share of the thefts. She stole with one hand, returned property with the other and was paid handsomely for her efforts. That she had judged Heap's property irretrievable struck Ethan as peculiar, to say the least. He wondered if she'd had some other reason for refusing to take on this inquiry.
"So, do you think you can help me, Mister Kaille?" Heap asked once more, pulling Ethan out of his musings.
"Aye, sir, I believe I can."
Heap smiled with obvious relief. "I'm glad to hear it." The man's smile turned brittle. "Would that I could see to this matter myself. Understand, I'm no coward. But Randle is a brute, and as you can see" — he gestured at himself — "I am anything but."
"Of course, sir. I understand."
The merchant faltered. "I've never done this before — actually hired a thieftaker, I mean. Do I pay you now?"
"You pay me a retainer, sir. I receive the balance of my fee upon returning your property."
"And what do you charge for your ... your services?"
"Different people pay me different amounts, in proportion to their means and the value they place on those items they've lost."
Heap still looked uncertain.
"I'll take a pound and ten as a retainer," Ethan said, wondering if the merchant would balk at such a large amount. "And three pounds, ten upon returning your property."
Heap appeared to consider this. At last he nodded. "Five pounds sounds reasonable." He pulled out a leather purse that rang with coins when he placed it on the table. With great care, he counted out one pound and ten shillings and handed the coins to Ethan. "There you are."
"Thank you, sir," Ethan said, pocketing the money. "I'll be in touch as soon as I have tidings to share. Would you prefer that I contact you at your home or at the warehouse?"
"I believe the warehouse would be best."
"Very well." Ethan stood. "I'll start my inquiry immediately."
Heap got to his feet as well and shook Ethan's hand again with great vigor. "Thank you, Mister Kaille. I look forward to our next encounter."
"Yes, sir." He watched the merchant leave the tavern, and then crossed to the bar.
At first, the barkeep, a tall, narrow-shouldered man with lank brown hair, barely spared him a glance. But when Ethan placed a shilling on the dull, dark wood, the man walked over and reached for the coin. Before his fingers touched it, Ethan covered the shilling with his hand.
"I'd like an ale," he said. "Kent Pale, if you have it. And I'm wondering if you know a man named Ned Randle."
The barkeep met Ethan's gaze for but a moment before looking down at his hand once more.
"That man paid you more than a shillin'," the barkeep said.
"Aye, he did. And last I checked, an ale should only be costing me a penny and a half. Do you want the shilling or not?"
The barkeep licked his lips. "We haven' got the Kent. Just a local small beer. Cider's pretty good though."
"All right," Ethan said. "And Randle?"
"He comes in now an' again. He's not a regular, but I know him."
"Do you know where I might find him when he's not here?"
The barkeep shook his head. "There must be a dozen pubs between here and the wharves. He could be in any one of them."
"He works the wharves?"
The man shrugged. "Most scrubs do when times are hard. And when was the last time they wasn' hard?"
"Do you trust him?"
"Do I trust him?" the barkeep repeated, chuckling. "I trust him as much as I trust any of the coves who show up here, and a fair bit more than I trust you."
Ethan grinned and removed his hand from the coin. The barkeep pocketed the shilling, then reached for a tankard.
"Cider then?" he asked.
Ethan started toward the door. "Another time," he said over his shoulder. He stepped out of the tavern into the chill air of an early spring day. The sun shone down on Boston Harbor, her wind-riffled waters sparkling as if strewn with diamonds. Gulls circled overhead, their plaintive cries echoing across the harbor and through the lanes of the North End, and cormorants preened atop the roofs of nearby warehouses.
Ethan weighed his options, then struck out westward, skirting the base of Copp's Hill and making his way to Gee's Shipyard. Mister Heap had known a good deal about the man who robbed him; few of Ethan's clients provided so much information. But still, Ethan didn't know where to begin his search. Thus, he thought it best to follow the counsel of the Roost's barkeep and look for Randle first on the wharves and in the North End shipyards.
He followed Charles Street to Salem Street and walked past the old Christ Church, with its brick façade and soaring white spire. Taking a right onto Shease, he checked to see that no one was watching and slipped into a narrow alley between a pair of buildings. There, he pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt, pushed up his coat and shirt sleeves, and cut his forearm.
Blood welled from the wound. "Velamentum ex cruore evocatum," he whispered. Concealment conjured from blood.
Power thrummed in the cobblestones beneath his feet and in the brick walls on either side of him. At the same time, a glowing russet figure winked into view beside Ethan. He appeared to be an older man, lean, with closely shorn white hair and a trim beard. He wore chain mail and a tabard bearing the lions of the ancient Plantagenet kings. A long sword hung from his belt.
"Hello, Reg," Ethan said.
The spirit frowned, his eyes glowing brightly in the shadows of the alley. Ethan did not actually know the old man's name. He was the shade of an ancient ancestor, a specter who allowed Ethan to access the power that dwelt between the living world and the realm of the dead. Without him, Ethan's conjurings would have no effect. But his appearance and perpetual scowl reminded Ethan of his mother's splenetic brother, Reginald, and so Ethan had long ago taken to calling him Uncle Reg.
With the concealment spell in place, Ethan could not be seen. He could search the wharves and shipyards freely, without drawing attention to himself or to his inquiry, and, he hoped, without scaring Randle away before he had a chance to question the man.
He left the alley, Reg stalking beside him, and soon reached Princes Street, near Aubrey Heap's house. He turned northwestward in the direction of Gee's Shipyard and fell in step with men and women making their way to the Charlestown Ferry, using their footfalls to mask his own.
Once Ethan reached the shipyard and its dock on the Charles River, he had to take greater care not to make noise. Those around him might not be able to see him, but they could hear every sound he made and they might even notice signs of his footsteps on the dirt fill of the wharf.
One ship, its hull mostly complete, sat on blocks near the end of a pier at the west end of the shipyard. Shipwrights and mechanics scrambled over the vessel, like beetles on a carcass, but otherwise there was little activity in the yard.
Back in 1744, before Ethan's imprisonment, when he first came to Boston, the shipyards of the North End had bustled with activity, and had been among the most productive in all of North America. But with the onset of war with the French, hard times had come to New England, and today, while shipbuilders in Philadelphia and New York continued to do a good business, many of Boston's yards had fallen idle.
Ethan walked the length and breadth of the yard, but saw no one who matched Heap's description of Ned Randle. He returned to the street and followed Ferry Way past the Charlestown Ferry dock and Hudson's Point checking each yard as he went. Still, he saw no sign of Randle.
But as he searched Greenough's Shipyard, he did spot a familiar face. Young Devren Jervis — Diver, for short — had been but a boy when Ethan first reached Boston. But even then, separated in age by eight years, Ethan and Diver had become fast friends. They had seen each other a few times since Ethan's return to the city from prison, and of all the people Ethan had known before being convicted for his involvement in the Ruby Blade mutiny, Diver was the only one who had treated him as a friend rather than as an embarrassment. He was also one of the few people in Boston who knew that Ethan could conjure.
Diver was perched near the top of a ladder, caulking the hull of a ship with strips of oakum, and setting them in place with irons. Other men worked nearby, but none of them was so close to Diver that they noticed as Ethan walked to the base of his friend's ladder and gave it a small shake.
Diver paused in his work, looking down. After a moment he turned his attention back to the caulking. Ethan shook the ladder a second time.
Frowning, Diver descended the ladder, the irons and his bucket of oakum in hand.
As he reached the bottom of the hull, Ethan edged closer to him and whispered, "Diver!"
His friend jumped and glanced around, his eyes wide.
"It's me," Ethan said. "I've cast a concealment spell."
Diver scowled. "Ethan?"
"Meet me at the water's edge."
Ethan stepped out of the unfinished hull and walked to the edge of the wharf. Along the way he bent to pick up a rusted nail that he spotted lying in the dirt. When Diver emerged from the hull and paused to survey the pier, Ethan tossed the nail into the water.
At the sound of the splash, Diver strode in his direction.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Price of Doing Business by D. B. Jackson, Chris McGrath. Copyright © 2014 D.B. Jackson. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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