Dead Man's Reach (37 page)

But he would not die by the hangman's noose.

The crowd at the end of the lane was growing, and a few intrepid souls were edging toward him, perhaps trying to catch a glimpse of his face and to make sense of the scene before them.

Ethan lurched to his feet, driven by cold and fear and the knowledge that he hadn't the power to undo his own failure, which had cost Grant his life. He dashed out of the lane and across Water Street, keeping his head lowered, hoping that no one abroad at this hour would recognize him by his limp or his clothes or his features.

He needed help, and the last time he had spoken to Sephira Pryce, she had made an uncharacteristically generous offer.

Running as fast as his bad leg would allow, he continued southward until he reached the New South Meeting House, with its soaring spire, which gleamed white in the glow of the moon. The bells in the church still pealed along with those of the city's other sanctuaries, but here at the southern end of Boston, the tolling drifted across pastureland and fields, incongruously peaceful on such a bloody night.

Ethan turned up Summer Street and soon stood once again at Sephira's door, breathing hard, his eyes streaming with the cold.

Despite the late hour, Sephira's windows were alight with candle flame. He knocked, and could not have been more surprised when Sephira herself opened the door.

“Mariz has been expecting you,” she said without preamble, and walked away from the door. Ethan entered the house, closed the door, and followed her into the sitting room.

Sephira had already taken a seat by the hearth. Mariz and her other toughs were arrayed around the room.

“You knew I'd come?” Ethan said to the conjurer.

“Yes. I sensed many spells, and I feared for you. They came from the center of the city, but I could not locate them precisely enough to find you. I thought that, if you survived, you might come here.”

Ethan didn't know what to say. Here was more kindness than he had thought to find.

“What's happened, Ethan?” Sephira asked, her tone as gentle as he had ever heard it, at least when directed at him.

He gave a high, choked laugh, and at the same time blinked away fresh tears. “Ramsey is using me … The shootings tonight on King Street—you've heard about them?”

She nodded.

“I was there. The spells that caused them to fire…” He broke off. He knew he wasn't making sense, but he was torn between his need and his fear of confessing too much to this woman who had tormented him so over the years. “A friend of mine was shot. He also used me to start a brawl in a tavern, and the woman I love was stabbed.”

“Is she—?”

“I healed her in time.”

“And your friend?”

“He'll live as well. But…” Even now, he couldn't bring himself to say out loud that Diver had lost his arm. “But just now,” he went on, “as I was about to learn something of value from another conjurer, Ramsey appeared as an illusion. This other conjurer is dead. People saw me looming over him. They think I did it.”

“I don't understand,” Sephira said. “You say he used you. Used you how?”

Ethan looked to Mariz.

“He is casting spells using Kaille's power,” Mariz said, watching Ethan even as he spoke to Sephira. “I do not know the magick, but it means that Ramsey does not have to be present to cast; wherever Kaille is, Ramsey can conjure.”

“Including here?”

Ethan felt himself go pale. “Aye. I'm sorry, Sephira. I wasn't thinking. I'll leave right away.” He headed back to her door.

“Ethan, come back here.” She sounded more annoyed than frightened, like a parent summoning a wayward child.

“It's not safe for you,” he said, remaining by the door.

“I would think that would make you all the more willing to come closer.”

He had to grin. But he didn't move.

Seconds later, Sephira joined him in the foyer. “I told you the other day, I'm not afraid of Ramsey.”

“You should be. I'm terrified of him.”

“I'm sorry about your woman. I'm glad she's all right.”

“Thank you.”

“Come back inside.”

“I came to speak with Mariz. He and I can go outside and talk there. That would be the more prudent thing to do.”

“I find prudence boring. Didn't you know?”

He smiled again.

“Let me see if I understand,” she said. “Ramsey is using you to hurt others, including the people who mean the most to you. Am I to infer that it was your witchery, wielded by Ramsey, that caused tonight's shootings?”

“Aye.”

“And now he's managed to make it seem that you're a murderer.”

“That's right.”

“Impressive.”

Ethan looked to the side, his mouth twitching.

“Relax, Ethan. I have no intention of helping Ramsey or of taking advantage of what he's done to you.” She grinned. “At least not right now.”

“Why not?” he asked, facing her.

“Because he killed Nigel. And because someday I'm going to ruin you myself, and I certainly don't need his help.”

Ethan couldn't help but laugh, though his chest ached.

“Mariz,” she called.

The conjurer joined them.

“Ethan wants a word with you. I think he'd be happier discussing these matters outside.”

“Of course,
Senhora
.” Mariz retreated into another room, only to emerge again, shrugging on a coat.

“You and I will speak again soon,” Sephira said.

“Did you go to Medfield?” Ethan asked.

“Nap and Gordon did. They found the girl and the jewels. The soldier is gone, I think. But you have my thanks.” She flashed a dazzling smile. “It was the easiest four and ten I've earned in some time.”

“My pleasure.”

He and Mariz stepped outside onto the portico. Ethan gazed northward toward the lights of Cornhill. Mariz pulled the door shut.

“I have communicated with my mentor as I told you I would,” the conjurer said, coming forward to stand beside Ethan. “He has heard of borrowed spells and even knew of a conjurer who used them against another man. But he could tell me nothing about how to guard one's power from the use of another. The magicking, he said, was beyond any he had learned.”

Ethan's disappointment was mild; he had not expected anything more. “Thank you for trying. I've never sent an illusion so far to speak with someone. Was it difficult?”

Mariz shrugged. “He is in the city of my youth. I know the place well, which made it easier. But it is Ramsey's illusion of which I wish to speak. You have spoken to him?”

“Aye. But I'm not sure there's much to be gained in talking about it. He can do what he wants with my power, at a time and place of his choosing.”

“And you can do nothing to stop him?”

“Wardings don't work, even sophisticated ones. And I can't hurt an illusion. I believe there may be another man working with him—a soldier with the Twenty-ninth Regiment who's billeted at Murray's Barracks. But on this, of all nights, I won't be able to get near him. The last I saw of him, he was guarding the Town House with his comrades.”

“We can use a concealment spell. Perhaps we can get close enough to speak with him when he is no longer on duty.”

In spite of everything, Ethan smiled at his use of the word “we.”

“Thank you, Mariz.”

“Tell me about these wardings you have tried.”

Ethan described for him the spell he had taught himself using the herbs he purchased at the Fat Spider.

“I have never cast such a warding myself, but I know that in Portugal, there are no herbs more valued for protection spells than the three Miss Windcatcher sold you.”

“Right,” Ethan said. “The spell should work, but for some reason it doesn't.”

“Then let us find the soldier; perhaps he can explain this.”

“All right.”

Mariz slipped back inside to tell Sephira that they would be leaving for a time. He returned moments later.

Ethan raised his blade to the back of his hand, intending to cast the concealment spell. Mariz, though, put out a hand to stop him.

“I will cast it,” he said. “Ramsey knows your conjurings. He may feel when you cast, and even recognize the spell. He is not as familiar with me and my power.”

It was a fair point. “Very well.”

Sephira's man cut himself and spoke the concealment spell for both of them. The conjuring trembled in the ground, and then settled over Ethan, like a cool mist on this frigid night. Concealed as they were by the same spell, Ethan and Mariz could see each other. They would be invisible to others, however, including any conjurers they encountered. They dismissed their spectral guides—Reg scowled when Ethan muttered, “
Dimitto te
”—and set out toward Cornhill and the western end of King Street.

So late at night, and at this end of the city, away from the mob that no doubt still crowded the lanes around the Town House, the streets were empty. Ethan and Mariz placed their feet with some care to avoid making too much noise as they walked, but for now they were in little danger of being heard. And for the time being, Ethan didn't have to worry about being identified as Grant's murderer.

“This soldier we seek—”

“His family name is Morrison.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“I know he's a conjurer, and that his spectral guide was on Middle Street the day Christopher Seider was shot. Beyond that I don't know anything for certain. But I believe Ramsey hired Grant—the man he killed tonight—because he had ties to the Sons of Liberty. And I think he wanted to have a soldier working for him as well. What better way to sow as much conflict as possible in a garrisoned city?”

“But to what end, Kaille? I did not think that Ramsey cared about politics. He hates you, and has been driven by that hatred all along. Why bother with all of this?”

“I don't know. He may believe that I care even if he doesn't. And no doubt he remembers that Sephira worked for importation violators last summer; he hates her as well, and may wish to pit us against each other.”

Mariz did not appear convinced. Ethan wasn't sure that he believed all of this either. But as they neared the corner of Cornhill and King streets, another thought came to him, one that he had first voiced to Janna.

“The illusion Ramsey used looked just like him.” There were more people on the streets here, and Ethan said this in a whisper. “Or rather exactly as I remember him from last summer.”

Sephira's man frowned at him and shrugged. “If you were to cast such a spell, would you not have it appear as you do?”

“Of course I would. But think, Mariz. He was trapped in that burning warehouse. He should have been scarred; as skilled as he is with conjurings, he couldn't have escaped completely unscathed.”

“He is prideful. Perhaps he would not want you to see his scars.”

“I'm sure he wouldn't,” Ethan said. “But what if there is more at work here than mere pride? What if he's not merely scarred, but truly maimed? What if he's using these spells against me because he can't strike at me more directly? What if I can't find his ship because he is no longer capable of captaining a vessel?”

“It is possible. I had not considered this, but yes, it makes sense. This would make him easier to defeat, would it not?”

“It probably would. But it will also make him more desperate, more extravagant in what he's willing to do.”

They passed the Old Brick Church. Its bell still tolled, testimony to how far Ramsey might go in his quest for revenge. The church stood only a few paces from the Town House and the western end of King Street. Remarkably, the crowd had dispersed, or perhaps had moved elsewhere. The soldiers were no longer guarding the building.

“They must be back at the barracks,” Ethan said.

“Then this will be easier.”

According to the clock on the Town House, it was past two o'clock in the morning. Still, Ethan and Mariz continued on to Murray's Barracks, stopping outside the entrance. The door was shut, and they couldn't open it without giving themselves away. They heard enough voices from within, though, to know that the soldiers were not yet abed.

“What now?” Mariz asked, his voice low.

“Now we convince him to join us outside.
Veni ad me
,” Ethan said. Come to me.

Reg winked into view, bright russet in the gloom. He still appeared to be annoyed at having been dismissed as they made their way to the barracks.

“I didn't want someone spotting us too soon,” Ethan said. “But now I need you to draw the soldier-conjurer outside. Do you know which man I mean?”

The ghost grinned and nodded.

“Good. Then go.”

Reg glided to the doorway and passed through the wood and into the warehouse.

“This way,” Ethan said.

He led Mariz farther up Brattle Street, past Hillier's Street, to Wings Lane, which was deserted. They waited at that corner, watching the barracks entrance, both of them with their blades drawn. After a few moments, Reg emerged onto the street once more and turned unerringly in their direction. Halfway up Brattle Street, the ghost halted and peered back over his glowing shoulder.

A few seconds later, the door to the sugar warehouse opened and out stepped a lanky uniformed soldier, his musket in hand. He glanced up and down the street. Spotting Reg, he strode after him.

Reg glided toward Ethan and Mariz, turning the corner at Wings Lane and then passing them, so that Morrison could not see him anymore.

The soldier quickened his pace.

Ethan and Mariz retreated a short distance onto the lane. As they did, Mariz looked at Ethan and mimicked holding a musket. Then he shook his head.

Ethan understood: This confrontation promised to be far more dangerous if Morrison was armed. Before he could respond, however, Morrison reached the corner. Reg had stopped a few strides beyond Ethan and Mariz, and now stood in the middle of the lane.