found hanging by his britches from a high branch, or covered in hogs’ filth—which, when it was too cold to wash, soiled him for days at a time.
Misfortune struck us both in the winter of our sixteenth year. It came at different times and for different reasons, yet our miseries are linked. My past will be made plain enough when I’ve a mind to spell it out. As for Cramby, his most dangerous brush with James Hurlbut occurred when he was lured into a sleigh and driven far from town, dumped on a wild stretch of road, pushed into a snowbank, and left to tramp the miles home through darkness and bitter cold. The trick nearly killed him, and for months after, no one saw skinny hide nor lank hair of him. Then, with the blossoms of April, Cramby reappeared. His illness had made of him a walking corpse, and from the way he laughed at odd times and spoke feverishly to himself, people assumed he’d been touched in the head. In a move worthy of his father, Amos Hurlbut—the town’s chief puppeteer and architect of my initial indenture to Hiram Scales—James pretended to play the benevolent and bestowed upon Cramby the dubious honor of becoming his messenger. Almost a decade later, it was a post he still held.
The envelope I accepted from his clawlike fingers was secured with the ornate Hurlbut family seal, and beneath my name, PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL had been penned with great flourish. (Who but the rich—ever certain that their affairs are of interest to one and all—would send a private missive by errand boy labeled in such a manner as to beg inspection? Of course, the canniest lad in search of employ as a messenger always professes illiteracy, for it lends him a frail immunity. As one might expect, however, the boy unable to recite the alphabet during daylight hours can be found poring over the finer points of Machiavelli’s treatises by night. And I say good for him.)
Popping the seal, I read without enthusiasm, for though I was in need of a case, I would have preferred that it come from anyone other than James Hurlbut. He wrote of an incendiary that had broken out the night before on the outskirts of the town of Ashland. As the Hale County fire inspector, I would of course eventually have been apprised of the tragedy, but Hurlbut wanted me to visit the farm as early as possible so that I might “sift through the wreckage before it has been disturbed by clod-footed constables.”
That a former friend-turned-traitor had me at his beck and call galled me beyond description, but his order did not surprise me. After all, my job as a fire inspector was no coincidence. James’s father had made sure I was named to the post as it afforded him—and now his sons—access to land that might become available to them at a favorable rate under the right circumstances. Need I spell out that having a man like me in your pocket goes a long way towards creating such a happy outcome?
I skimmed the rest of the note. I was to show him my report just as soon as I’d finished it—long before making its findings official. The size of the purse I could expect would be dependent upon my ability to massage the truth in favor of my master’s desires. This was our standard agreement. If revenge was his goal, a finding of arson pleased him best. But if it was a sought-after piece of land that had caught his eye, then declaring the situation an accident was what I was expected to do.
This property was known as “the Briggs place,” though its owner was a farmer named Silas Kimball. Any Ashlander, he wrote, would be able to point me in the right direction. He hoped my investigation would go smoothly and signed his missive “Ever your devoted patron.”
My patron indeed. How I longed to crush the paper in my fist.
One thing puzzled me: why James Hurlbut would be intrigued by an incendiary so far from his fiefdom, and one that had consumed but an isolated farm at that. But his plan would reveal itself soon enough. Writing that I would set
Misfortune struck us both in the winter of our sixteenth year. It came at different times and for different reasons, yet our miseries are linked. My past will be made plain enough when I’ve a mind to spell it out. As for Cramby, his most dangerous brush with James Hurlbut occurred when he was lured into a sleigh and driven far from town, dumped on a wild stretch of road, pushed into a snowbank, and left to tramp the miles home through darkness and bitter cold. The trick nearly killed him, and for months after, no one saw skinny hide nor lank hair of him. Then, with the blossoms of April, Cramby reappeared. His illness had made of him a walking corpse, and from the way he laughed at odd times and spoke feverishly to himself, people assumed he’d been touched in the head. In a move worthy of his father, Amos Hurlbut—the town’s chief puppeteer and architect of my initial indenture to Hiram Scales—James pretended to play the benevolent and bestowed upon Cramby the dubious honor of becoming his messenger. Almost a decade later, it was a post he still held.
The envelope I accepted from his clawlike fingers was secured with the ornate Hurlbut family seal, and beneath my name, PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL had been penned with great flourish. (Who but the rich—ever certain that their affairs are of interest to one and all—would send a private missive by errand boy labeled in such a manner as to beg inspection? Of course, the canniest lad in search of employ as a messenger always professes illiteracy, for it lends him a frail immunity. As one might expect, however, the boy unable to recite the alphabet during daylight hours can be found poring over the finer points of Machiavelli’s treatises by night. And I say good for him.)
Popping the seal, I read without enthusiasm, for though I was in need of a case, I would have preferred that it come from anyone other than James Hurlbut. He wrote of an incendiary that had broken out the night before on the outskirts of the town of Ashland. As the Hale County fire inspector, I would of course eventually have been apprised of the tragedy, but Hurlbut wanted me to visit the farm as early as possible so that I might “sift through the wreckage before it has been disturbed by clod-footed constables.”
That a former friend-turned-traitor had me at his beck and call galled me beyond description, but his order did not surprise me. After all, my job as a fire inspector was no coincidence. James’s father had made sure I was named to the post as it afforded him—and now his sons—access to land that might become available to them at a favorable rate under the right circumstances. Need I spell out that having a man like me in your pocket goes a long way towards creating such a happy outcome?
I skimmed the rest of the note. I was to show him my report just as soon as I’d finished it—long before making its findings official. The size of the purse I could expect would be dependent upon my ability to massage the truth in favor of my master’s desires. This was our standard agreement. If revenge was his goal, a finding of arson pleased him best. But if it was a sought-after piece of land that had caught his eye, then declaring the situation an accident was what I was expected to do.
This property was known as “the Briggs place,” though its owner was a farmer named Silas Kimball. Any Ashlander, he wrote, would be able to point me in the right direction. He hoped my investigation would go smoothly and signed his missive “Ever your devoted patron.”
My patron indeed. How I longed to crush the paper in my fist.
One thing puzzled me: why James Hurlbut would be intrigued by an incendiary so far from his fiefdom, and one that had consumed but an isolated farm at that. But his plan would reveal itself soon enough. Writing that I would set
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