Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  “I didn’t conjure,” he said. “You know that I didn’t.”

  Reg nodded. But once more he pointed at Ethan, his glowing finger gleaming like a polished blade.

  “I didn’t cut myself, or draw blood in any way. I didn’t—”

  He broke off and fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat for the pouch of mullein. Pulling it open he saw that it was still as full as it had been.

  “It’s all there.” He held it open for Reg to see, though the ghost showed little interest in looking. “So if I drew no blood, and used none of the herb, how could the spell have come from me?” He began to pace; he could feel Reg’s gleaming eyes following him. “An illusion spell wouldn’t have been powerful enough to make a soldier behave that way. Never mind that I didn’t utter a single word in Latin.” He stopped and stared at the ghost. “What you’re telling me isn’t possible. How could I cast such a spell without meaning to, without being aware of doing it?”

  Reg shook his head, but then pointed at him again.

  “Yes, I understand! I cast the spell. I’m asking you how that can be.”

  Reg opened his hands, a rare look of sympathy on his ancient features.

  “Did both spells come from me? The first that precipitated the conflict, and the second that made the soldier attack Diver?”

  The ghost nodded.

  “It has to be Nate Ramsey. Who else could cast in this way?”

  Reg offered no response.

  “Do you sense him? Is he in Boston again, or perhaps out on the harbor, beyond the ice?”

  The ghost shrugged and shook his head.

  “Search for him, please. I walked the length of the waterfront three days ago, before the snowfall. I can do it again, but I don’t think I’m going to find him that way. I need your help.”

  Reg grinned and saluted.

  “Thank you.”

  The ghost faded from view, leaving Ethan in darkness on the street outside the Dowser. Stars shone overhead and the barest sliver of a moon hung low in the western sky beyond the dark mass of Beacon Hill. He had no proof that Ramsey had returned, no reason even to suspect that the captain was back save the unexplained conjurings that had done such grave harm in recent days. And yet Ethan felt as though an unseen blade were pressed against his throat.

  He tried the tavern door. Finding it locked, he knocked once. Heavy footsteps approached the door.

  “Who’s there?” Kelf said, growling the words.

  In spite of all that had happened this night, Ethan smiled in the darkness. As reluctant as the barman might have been to leave the funeral, he would have battled the entire French army to keep Kannice safe.

  “It’s Ethan, Kelf.”

  The lock clicked and Kelf pulled the door open. He held a cleaver in his free hand.

  “Took you long enough,” the barman said.

  “Have you been worried about me?”

  Kelf glowered. “Joke all you like, but she was worried. And I’m the one who has to put up with it.”

  Ethan schooled his features. “I apologize. I’m not going anywhere else tonight, so if you want to be on your way, she’ll be fine.”

  The barman waved him into the tavern and shut the door. “What happened, anyway?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Kannice said, emerging from the kitchen. “I want to hear this as well.”

  “There’s not a lot to tell, actually,” Ethan said, keeping his gaze on Kelf. “A few young pups thought they’d insult some soldiers and throw a snowball or two. It could have been worse, but they tired of their sport before too long, and the king’s men kept their heads.”

  Kelf gave a shake of his head. “Them lobsters shouldn’t be here at all. The sooner they leave, the sooner we can get back to livin’ our lives.”

  Would that it were so easy, Ethan thought. To Kelf he said, “I’d wager that every person who was in that procession tonight feels as you do, myself included.”

  “Aye, but no one asks us, do they?”

  Ethan grinned. “No, they don’t.”

  Kelf turned to Kannice. “All right then; I’ll be on my way.”

  “Thank you, Kelf,” she said.

  The barman nodded to her and to Ethan and let himself out of the tavern. Once he was gone, Kannice stepped out from behind the bar, drew her own key from her bodice, and locked the door. Then she put her arms around Ethan’s neck and kissed him.

  “Now,” she said, “I want to know what really happened.”

  “As do I.”

  Her brow creased.

  “I felt a spell, and Uncle Reg appeared. And as soon as those things happened some lads started a confrontation with a group of soldiers. I did my best to keep them from hurting one another, and thought I’d succeeded. But then a second spell pulsed in the street, and one of the regulars charged at Diver, his bayonet fixed. I had to cast three spells to stop him.”

  “Is Diver—?”

  “He’s fine. But the soldier would have killed him; I’m sure of it.”

  “And you have no idea where those other spells came from?”

  “None.”

  “What about your ghost? Can’t you ask him?”

  Ethan forced a smile, knowing that it couldn’t mask his fear. “That’s the strangest part of it all. He swears that the spells came from me.”

  Kannice took a step back. “I don’t like the sound of that at all. You didn’t cast them, did you?”

  “Of course not. Some other conjurer has found a way to use my power for his or her own spells, to conjure through me, as it were.”

  “Is that something you can do?”

  “I didn’t even know it was possible until now.” He frowned and rubbed a hand over his face. “The odd thing is, these spells don’t appear to leave any residue. Usually when a conjurer casts, there remains a hint of his or her power that another speller can reveal with a particular kind of conjuring. But that doesn’t happen with these spells. There appears to be no residue at all, neither mine nor anyone else’s. I’d almost feel better if there was; that at least would make some sense. It would mean whoever is casting wants others to believe I’m responsible for the violence these spells are unleashing. But to leave nothing…” He shook his head.

  “Who do you think is doing this?”

  Ethan’s gaze slid away from hers toward the hearth. “I don’t know.”

  “Ethan.”

  “I don’t know, Kannice. I’m … I don’t know.”

  “But you suspect, don’t you? I know you do. You believe it’s Ramsey.”

  He chanced a look at her. Despite the dim light in the great room, he could see that her cheeks had gone pale.

  “Aye,” he said in a whisper. “I can’t think of another conjurer who possesses both the skill and the ill nature to do something this … evil. But I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

  “Of course you do.”

  He dipped his chin, closing his eyes. “I’ve assumed all along that he survived the fire at Drake’s Wharf, and that he would return eventually. I had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.”

  Kannice put her arms around him again, and he pulled her close.

  “He nearly killed you last time,” she murmured, “and now he has more cause than ever to hate you.”

  There was little Ethan could say; she was right on both points.

  “What will you do?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.

  “I’ll find him, I’ll learn what he wants this time, and if I have to, I’ll kill him.”

  She took a deep breath and rested her head against his chest.

  “First, though, I need to speak with Mariz, and perhaps I should see Janna again as well. It may be that they know more about this type of conjuring than I do.”

  “Well, you’re not going out again tonight, so take off that coat and come upstairs with me.”

  He was in no mood to argue. “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Dreams of Nate Ramsey and their previous encounters haunted Ethan’
s sleep and woke him for good early in the morning. He slipped out of bed, dressed without waking Kannice, and descended the stairs to the tavern. Once more, he took some bread from the kitchen and left a few coins in the bar till. He stirred the coals in the hearth of the great room, and put two more logs on the gleaming embers. Soon he had a fine blaze burning. He settled into a chair by the fire and chewed his bread.

  When he had finished, he pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt, pushed up his sleeve, and cut his forearm. “Locus magi ex cruore evocatus.” Location of conjurer, conjured from blood.

  The spell rumbled in the floor and walls of the tavern, and his conjuring spread through the city, like ripples in a pond.

  “Good morning,” Ethan said to Reg, who had winked into view near the fire.

  Reg stood straight-backed, his head cocked to the side, as if he were waiting to see what the spell revealed.

  “Did you find Ramsey?” Ethan asked.

  The ghost shook his head. Despite his disappointment, Ethan was hardly surprised. Ramsey would never make things so easy for him.

  For the same reason, he didn’t expect his simple finding spell to work on the captain, but he still held out hope that some other conjurer was responsible for the spells he had felt. His finding spell revealed a conjurer in the North End; he assumed it was Grant. He also sensed two more a good distance to the south: most likely Mariz and Janna. And there seemed to be one more conjurer in the center of Boston, not far from the Dowser; he wasn’t sure who this might be. But he found no conjurers near the waterfront or on the harbor. He would need to find this fourth conjurer, though he thought it unlikely that Ramsey, if he were alive, would venture so far into the city.

  Reg watched him, avid, eyes glowing.

  “Perhaps it’s not Captain Ramsey after all,” Ethan said to the ghost. “We might have to do some hunting later today.”

  The ghost grinned, then faded from view. Ethan stood and pulled on his greatcoat. As he did, he heard Kannice stirring upstairs.

  “Ethan?” she called down to him.

  “I’m still here. But I was about to leave.”

  She descended the stairs, wearing a robe, her hair still disheveled. “Where are you going?”

  “Sephira Pryce’s estate.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I told you I wished to speak with Mariz. That’s where I’ll find him.”

  “Haven’t you told me that she doesn’t approve of your friendship with Mariz?”

  He made no effort to conceal his amusement. “Aye.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “There are times when it seems that you go out of your way to antagonize her.”

  “Well, a man needs a hobby.”

  “I’m serious, Ethan. She’s no more fond of you than you are of her, and she has never been shy about threatening your life or ordering her brutes to beat you bloody.”

  “She hates Nate Ramsey more than she hates me. When I tell her that he may be back, she’ll be willing to let me speak with her pet conjurer. And I’ve just sensed another conjurer here in the city. She might want to know about that as well.”

  Kannice narrowed her eyes. “Do you think she’s beautiful?”

  “I don’t think it,” he said, without pausing to ponder his words. “I know it.”

  She pressed her lips thin. “That was not the response I was looking for.”

  Ethan walked to where she stood and took her hands in his. “Am I to understand that you’re jealous of Sephira Pryce?”

  Kannice’s gaze dropped. “Well, you could have been a bit less adamant about how lovely she is.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. She’s a hag, toadlike in appearance. I’ve seen sows that were more attractive.”

  She laughed.

  “Would you have believed me if I’d said that?”

  “Probably not, but it would have been nice to hear.”

  He lifted her chin with a finger, making her look him in the eye, and he kissed her softly on the lips. “First of all, Sephira Pryce, while beautiful, is the cruelest, most wicked, least trustworthy, most self-affected person I have ever met. And second, her beauty, while undeniable, is nothing next to yours.”

  Kannice smiled. “Now that was much better. You should have started with that.”

  “All right. Ask me again.”

  She laughed once more. “That’s not—”

  “Ask me again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you think Sephira Pryce is beautiful?”

  “Sephira Pryce,” he said, scratching his chin. “I’m not sure I know who that is. Oh, of course. You’re referring to that mean old sow who lives on Summer Street. I suppose she might be attractive to some—mostly the blind and the infirm.”

  “Leave,” Kannice said, a thread of laughter lingering in her voice. She pushed him toward the door.

  “But I haven’t gotten to the part where she’s not as lovely as you.”

  “I don’t care. Go away.”

  “I’ll be back later.”

  “I’ll have moved to Newport.”

  It was his turn to laugh. She followed him to the door so that she could unbolt the lock. He stepped out into the bright daylight, but then turned back to her. “Lock the door.”

  “Kelf will be here soon.”

  “And when he arrives you can unlock it.”

  “My lock is not going to stop Nate Ramsey.”

  She was right, of course, though he didn’t care to be reminded of this.

  “Humor me,” he said.

  There was a note of indulgence in her voice as she said, “All right.”

  He struck out southward along Sudbury Street, which soon became Treamount. The lanes were more crowded this day, and the snow had been trampled down further, making walking far easier than it had been even the night before. Carriages and chaises steered past him, the hoofbeats of their horses muffled, the turning of their wheels on the packed snow as quiet as the gliding of sleigh runners.

  The sky was a deep azure and cloudless. An eagle circled on splayed wings high overhead, white and chestnut against the blue. Lower, gulls soared in great flocks, their cries sounding thin and mournful.

  It was a sparkling morn, brighter than any Boston had seen in recent weeks. Yet those Ethan encountered in the streets seemed uncommonly solemn. Ethan wondered how long it would be before the pall from yesterday’s funeral lifted.

  As Ethan walked along the edge of the Common, he considered what he might say to Sephira. Notwithstanding what he had told Kannice, he wasn’t yet ready to share with the Empress of the South End his fear that Ramsey had returned. He knew nothing for certain; he was not entirely convinced that his suspicions were based on anything more than his lingering dread of another confrontation with the captain. There was another conjurer in the city; he knew that now. Though he could not yet shake the conviction that Ramsey was responsible for all that had happened in the past several days, the evidence he had gathered thus far—his own fruitless search of the waterfront, Uncle Reg’s assurances, the fact that he had yet to see Ramsey’s aqua power on any of the men affected by the spells—pointed him in a different direction.

  More to the point, Sephira hated Ramsey with a passion that surpassed Ethan’s own, and with good reason. The previous summer, during a pitched battle between Ramsey’s crew and her toughs, Ramsey killed Nigel Billings, the yellow-haired giant of a man who had been Sephira’s most trusted lieutenant. If Ethan so much as suggested that Ramsey might be back, she would tear the city apart searching for him, with potentially tragic results for herself, her men, and any innocents who chanced to get in her way.

  But without mentioning Ramsey, Ethan didn’t know how he might convince Sephira to allow Mariz to help him. She did not approve of their friendship, and she would be reluctant to do anything that might deepen it. Though he racked his brain, trying to come up with ideas, he still had not thought of anything by the time he reached her home.

  Sephira’s
mansion stood at the south end of Summer Street, near the Old South Meeting House and across the lane from d’Acosta’s Pasture, an expanse of grazing land that was usually filled with lowing cows and flocks of crows.

  The cobblestone path leading from the street to Sephira’s house had been cleared, but otherwise the snow blanketing her yard remained pristine, making her impressive white marble home appear even more stately than usual. Ethan approached the front door. Most days Sephira had at least one of her toughs posted outside on the portico, but not this morning. He rapped once with the brass lion’s-head knocker.

  A moment later the door swung open, revealing Gordon, who looked as huge and ugly as usual. The brute frowned at the sight of Ethan, his ears turning red.

  “What do you want?”

  Ethan considered a gibe—something about the nap Gordon had taken that night in Will Pryor’s room, and how Sephira might have been working him too hard. But he had come to ask a boon of the Empress of the South End. Angering one of her men would not help his cause.

  “I need to speak with Sephira,” he said. “And with Mariz as well. Please.”

  Apparently, Gordon had expected mockery; Ethan’s courtesy deepened his frown.

  “Wait here.”

  He shut the door before Ethan could say more. Ethan stepped off the portico back into the sunshine of the path. He stamped his feet to get the snow off his boots and breeches.

  The door opened again and Gordon waved him inside.

  Ethan entered the house, and waited while Gordon closed the door again.

  “Your knife,” the tough said, holding out a meaty hand. “And those plants you like to carry around.”

  Ethan smirked. “Do you mean the mullein?”

  “Sure, whatever you call it.”

  He pulled the blade from the sheath on his belt, flipped it over, and handed it to Gordon hilt-first. Then he dug in his coat pocket for the pouch of mullein and gave that to the man, too.

  “That all of it?” Gordon asked. At Ethan’s nod, he said, “In that case, she’s in the dinin’ room.”

  “My thanks.”

  He had been Sephira’s guest enough times to know his way around the ground floor of the mansion. He walked through the grand common room, to the dining room. Sephira sat at the end of a long table of dark polished wood. She looked as lovely as always, in a black waistcoat and white silk shirt. Her hair was down, and a large purple gem shone at her throat.