Nap, dark and lean, and Mariz, a blade already in hand and his sleeves pushed up, both stood by the entrance to the chamber. Afton stood behind Sephira, his massive arms folded over his chest.
“How nice to see you, Ethan,” Sephira said, hardly sparing him a glance as she perused a newspaper: the Boston Evening-Post, the city’s most prominent Tory publication.
“Good day, Sephira.”
“To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Having failed to come up with any viable falsehoods, Ethan opted for a version of the truth.
“I’ve come seeking your help. And more to the point, help from Mariz.”
The conjurer frowned, his spectacles catching the light from the nearest of the glazed windows.
Sephira looked up from her paper, her expression no warmer than the air outside. “Help with what?” she demanded, biting off each word.
“In the past several days, I’ve sensed spells that I can’t explain, and for which I can find no residue of power, nothing at all that would let me determine who cast them. I don’t believe that Mariz is responsible for these spells, but I do think that he can help me find the person who is.”
Sephira turned her attention back to the newspaper. “Why should I care that another witch is troubling you. It sounds as though I should offer this person a job, or at least a reward.”
“I can understand why you feel that way. But these spells could affect you as well. In fact, one of them already has.”
She put the down paper once more. “What are you talking about?”
“Five nights ago, when Gordon here nearly killed Will Pryor.”
Gordon twisted his mouth to the side like a little boy accused of stealing.
“It’s happened again?” Sephira asked.
“Aye. Not exactly the same thing, of course; the circumstances have been different. But several times over the past few days I’ve felt these conjurings, and each one of them has led directly to violence.”
“And what exactly do you believe Mariz can do?”
“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. I need to speak with another conjurer, someone who understands spellmaking. This is a puzzle, Sephira, the like of which I’ve rarely encountered. I need help figuring it out.”
“Why must it be Mariz? Why not go to that mad old woman who lives on the Neck? Windcatcher. Why not ask her?”
“I intend to,” Ethan said. “But surely you can see the value in speaking to more than one person.”
“All right, ask him what you will.” Her smile was as thin as smoke.
“I’d prefer to speak of this in private.”
“I don’t care what you’d prefer,” Sephira said, firing the words back at him.
“I came here as a courtesy to you, Sephira. I knew that you wouldn’t be pleased by my request, but I thought it proper that I ask rather than seek out Mariz’s advice without your knowledge. I can just as easily leave now, and approach him another time. Would you prefer that?”
If Sephira could conjure, she would have turned him into a human torch. She glanced at Mariz before turning her glare back to Ethan. “Five minutes,” she said, her voice so low that at first Ethan wasn’t sure he had heard. “You can speak outside on the portico.”
“Thank you, Sephira.”
Ethan left them there, knowing that Mariz would follow eventually, but that Sephira would wish to speak with him first.
He let himself out of the house, and stepped to the edge of the portico to stare out across the snowy pasture.
After a few minutes, he heard the door behind him open and close, and the scrape of a boot on marble.
“You should not have come,” Mariz said. “Showing such courtesy to the senhora may seem prudent, but in fact it diminishes her trust in me. Each time we speak in confidence, my relationship with her and the others suffers. I have told you this before, and yet—”
“My ghost says that the last spell came from me.”
He faced Mariz, who gazed back at him, blinking in the brilliant daylight.
“I wasn’t able to attempt a revela potestatem spell—there were too many people around me. And even if I had, I think we both know that it would have shown nothing at all. But as soon as the spell was cast, my spectral guide appeared, as he did the night Gordon beat Pryor.”
Mariz started to argue, but Ethan cut him off with a raised hand.
“That is what happened, Mariz. You saw him; we both did. At the time, we couldn’t know for certain, but after all that’s happened since, I’m convinced it was my ghost who appeared in Pryor’s room. Last night, when I asked him where the conjuring had come from, he pointed at me. I hadn’t cut myself; none of my mullein was missing. But somehow, I cast the spell.”
“What did it do, this conjuring you cast without knowing?”
“It started a row between a group of British soldiers and some of the young men who attended Christopher Seider’s funeral. As it happens, I felt a spell that day, too. I was on Middle Street when Richardson shot the lad, and a short while before he pulled the trigger, someone cast a spell.”
“‘Someone cast,’” Mariz repeated. “So this conjuring did not come from you.”
“My guide didn’t know where it came from. I believe that whoever is doing this is getting stronger and with each day is better able to use me as a conduit for his power.”
“Was anyone hurt last night?”
Ethan shook his head. “No. But a second spell—one that also came from me—made one of the soldiers attack a friend of mine. I had to resort to a sleep spell to keep him from killing the man.” He closed his eyes for a few seconds and took a long, steadying breath, trying to quell the panic rising in his chest. This was how he had felt throughout that week during the summer, as Ramsey unleashed horrors upon the city. He opened his eyes and asked Mariz, “Have you ever heard of a conjurer casting in this way?”
“I have not.”
Ethan had expected as much.
“I believe I know what you are thinking, Kaille, for I am thinking it as well: you believe that Ramsey has returned and is responsible for these spells.”
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
“You should have told the senhora. She would have been more willing to let us speak.”
“I was afraid she would immediately start hunting for him.”
“Would that not be of help to you?”
“If Sephira and Ramsey go to war, innocent people will die. I won’t shy away from a fight; if Ramsey is back, I’ll kill him. He’s left me no choice. But I would rather not endanger half of Boston if I can help it.”
“He may not leave you much choice in that regard either.”
Mariz was right.
The door opened and Nap joined them on the portico. “Sephira wants you inside, Mariz.” He looked Ethan’s way, but went back into the house without another word.
“I’m sorry if I’ve made your relationship with Sephira more difficult,” Ethan said, once Nap had closed the door again.
The conjurer shrugged. “I understand now why you came. It could not be helped.”
Ethan descended the steps to the cobblestone path.
“I sensed a finding spell this morning,” Mariz called to him, making him stop. “Was that yours?”
“Aye. I should have known that Ramsey couldn’t be located so easily, but I tried it anyway. I’ve also searched the waterfront for his ship, and found nothing. I did find another conjurer in the city, someone I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we are wrong, then, about Ramsey. Perhaps it is this other conjurer.”
Ethan shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve wondered in recent days whether I’m so afraid of Ramsey’s return that I’m incapable of rational thought.”
“Where Ramsey is concerned,” Mariz said, “fear is rational thought. You should be careful; turn your back on no one.”
This much, at least, Ethan had figured out for himself. He raised a hand in farewell and walked away.
Chapter
ELEVEN
Ethan’s conversation with Janna went much as had his exchange with Mariz. She had never heard of one conjurer using another in the way this speller seemed to be using Ethan, which was a striking admission coming from her: Janna knew more about spellmaking than any conjurer he’d met. But though perplexed by what he told her about the spells, she remained unconvinced that Ramsey was behind the attacks.
“You’re thinking’ too much like a thieftaker an’ not enough like a crazy man,” she told him.
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She scowled. “You understand what I’m saying. Ramsey wants you dead, and he’s not one for bein’ subtle.”
“What if this is all he can manage now, Janna? What if he was so badly hurt in the fire last summer that he’s not strong enough for a battle? Maybe subtlety is all he has left.”
She pondered this for some time before conceding that he might be right. Ethan would have preferred that she try harder to convince him he was wrong.
After leaving the Fat Spider, Ethan made his way back past the South End through Cornhill. He had planned to return to the Dowsing Rod, but as he drew nearer to Murray’s Barracks, an idea came to him. He had gone to the Green Dragon to see if a conjurer in the Sons of Liberty could have been casting these mysterious spells. But there were others in Boston who might have something to gain from more violent confrontations between patriots and Tories. And his finding spell had revealed a conjurer in the center of the city, perhaps near the barracks.
Slipping off of Treamount Street before he reached the corner of Queen, Ethan made sure he could not be seen. Rather than risk calling attention to himself by removing his greatcoat, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and whispered, “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood.
The spell pulsed, and Reg watched as the conjuring settled over him.
“There may be conjurers where I’m going,” Ethan said. “I don’t want them to see you. Dimitto te.” I release you.
The only thing Reg seemed to like less than being summoned was being dismissed. He glowered at Ethan as he faded from view. But Ethan had more pressing matters with which to concern himself. Walking through the city under a concealment spell was difficult under the best of circumstances, as he had to take care that he made no noise with his footsteps. But with fresh snow on the ground, his task became that much more complicated. He needed to place his feet only in spots where the snow had already been packed down by others.
He walked slowly, taking great care with each step. He passed groups of soldiers, watching them for any sign that they sensed his presence, but every man he saw ignored him. Reaching the entrance to the barracks, which was an old sugar warehouse owned by James Murray and James Smith, he waited as several men emerged from the building onto the street before easing inside.
Ethan wasn’t sure what he had expected of the barracks, but upon entering he was shocked by the squalor of the soldiers’ quarters. The air stank of sweat and urine and stale food. Though the warehouse was spacious, cots were crowded into it, leaving little room for walking; the men enjoyed no privacy. It was no wonder the occupying army had seen so many desertions over the past year and a half, or that such a large number of soldiers had resorted to thieving.
Still, the soldiers Ethan saw in the barracks, who had gathered in large and small clusters throughout the large space, seemed content to gamble at cards and laugh at one another’s jokes. A few men in one corner of the room groused about “the damn’d dogs” they had encountered in the streets, and the “whores and mongrels” who served them in the various publick houses they frequented.
Ethan didn’t remain with this group long enough to learn if they counted Kannice among them. Several times he heard men speak of using their muskets the next time they were accosted by gangs of toughs, but he thought this more bluster than anything else. Most of the men who said these things were young and appeared to be showing off for their older comrades.
He did not sense any conjurers among the regulars lounging in the barracks, but a skilled speller might have avoided detection. To be certain, he decided to try a spell. He moved to a spot near the center of the room, so that he could see most every man in the warehouse, and quietly removed three leaves of mullein from the pouch in his pocket.
Tegimen ex verbasco evocatum, he said in his mind. Warding, conjured from mullein.
He didn’t anticipate that he would need the warding to protect himself, but a speller did not waste conjurings. Still, the warding was far less important than the act of conjuring itself.
Most of the men showed no sign of feeling the spell. But one soldier, a young, lanky man reclining on a cot near the southern end of the room, tensed and sat up.
“Abi!” Ethan whispered to Reg, who had appeared like spell-summoned fire next to him. Go away!
This command pulsed as had the first spell.
The young soldier was on his feet now, staring in Ethan’s direction.
Cursing his recklessness, but glad to have the warding in place, Ethan backed toward the doorway, placing his feet with great care. When at last he reached the door he retreated into the street. Other soldiers milled about outside, but he avoided them and moved away from the barracks with as much speed and as little noise as he could manage. Still, he didn’t go so far that he couldn’t get a good look at the soldier should he appear at the barracks entrance. After a few seconds, the young soldier did just that, peering out into the street.
“Who’s there?” the man asked in a low voice, the words tinged with a Scottish burr.
Ethan eased closer.
“Wha’s the matter there, Morrison?” asked one of the men standing nearby.
“It’s nothing. I thought I heard somethin’.”
“Hearin’ things now, are ye?”
“Aye,” he said. Still he surveyed Brattle Street. It might have been Ethan’s imagination, but he thought that the man’s gaze lingered on him briefly. He didn’t so much as draw breath.
“I’m gonna step outside for a bit,” the man called to someone in the barracks.
He started in Ethan’s direction, removing a knife from his belt as he walked. Ethan took a few more steps back, trying to match his footfalls with those of the soldier.
A chaise rattled past. Using the sound to mask his steps, Ethan hurried on to Queen Street.
He hadn’t gotten far, however, when a spell growled in the ground. He knew it at once for a finding spell and spat a curse, turning the heads of some men nearby.
The spell rushed toward him, slipping over the street like an advancing tide over a sandy shore. It caught up with him in mere seconds, seeming to tug at his legs as might a retreating wave.
The young soldier had followed him as far as the corner of Brattle Street, shadowed by a pale form. It appeared to be the ghost of a man, also dressed in soldier’s garb. With the sun shining down on the snow, Ethan could barely make out the figure much less determine its exact color, but it looked to be a pale blue. After a moment, the ghost lifted a shimmering arm and pointed directly at him.
Ethan knew that with his concealment spell still in place, the soldier couldn’t see him. Nevertheless, he felt exposed, vulnerable. He turned and ran, knowing that he risked giving himself away. At the first corner, he turned southward away from the Dowser and kept running, his bad leg aching.
When he came to School Street, he turned again, this time toward the waterfront. He passed King’s Chapel, where his friend Trevor Pell served as a minister, and entered the narrower lanes of the Cornhill section of the city. He had followed a roundabout path, but he didn’t want the soldier following him either to the Dowser, or to his room over Henry’s cooperage, where he was headed now. He needed to remove his concealment conjuring, but he feared casting the spell too close to the barracks, since the pulse of his own conjuring would be as effective as a finding spell in telling the soldier where he was. The farther Ethan was from
the man when he cast, the more difficult it would be for the soldier to determine his location.
As Ethan passed Henry’s shop on his way around the building to the stairway in back that led to his room, Shelly lifted her head and thumped her tail on the snow-covered lane. Dogs, Ethan had noticed in the past, could see through concealment conjurings; he had no idea why.
He climbed the stairs carefully, trying to make not a sound, and to keep his balance on the treacherous ice that covered the old wooden treads. Once he was safely in his room, with the door locked, he pulled off his greatcoat, cut his arm, and said, “Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” End concealment, conjured from blood.
Reg materialized directly in front of him, frowning the way Ethan’s mother used to when disappointed in his casting.
“I know,” Ethan said. “I’m a fool.”
Reg nodded.
“But now I know that there’s at least one conjurer among the ranks of the Twenty-ninth Regiment. And he didn’t like that I was there. Perhaps he has more in mind than just keeping the peace.”
Reg offered no response.
But Ethan remembered the soldier’s finding spell. As reluctant as he was to conjure too much and draw the man to Henry’s shop, Ethan knew that he had to attempt one more spell.
He cut himself again, dabbed at the welling blood, and marked his own forehead and face as he had done to Ebenezer Richardson several nights before.
“Revela omnias magias ex cruore evocatas,” he said. Reveal all magicks, conjured from blood.
The rumble of the spell seemed to emanate from the foundation of the building. Ethan’s face felt cool where the blood evaporated. And when he looked down at his legs, where the soldier’s finding spell had touched him, he saw that at last one of his revela spells had worked.
On the street, in the sunlight, the soldier’s spectral guide had looked as pale as ice. In the murky light of Ethan’s room, however, his power was a far deeper shade of blue.
Reg pointed a ghostly finger at the glow on Ethan’s legs and raised his gaze to Ethan’s.
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