A Spell of Vengeance

by D. B. Jackson

  The ghost gave him a disapproving look, as if offended at being disturbed for the mere lighting of a stove.

  “It’s cold,” Ethan said, trying not to sound defensive, knowing that he failed.

  Reg continued to scowl as he faded from view.

  The room was small, but it warmed slowly, and even with two woolen blankets wrapped around him, Ethan lay awake for a long time.

  He didn’t know of many conjurers living here in Boston: Janna Windcatcher ran a small tavern on the Neck; Old Gavin Black lived in the North End and claimed to have given up spellmaking years ago. Aside from them, however, and one or two others whom he didn’t know by name, there was no one.

  He didn’t necessarily believe that Ramsey’s son could cast; false rumors of witchery were as old as the Province of Massachusetts Bay itself. But a part of him hoped that in this case the whispers would prove true, and that he would convince Ramsey to cease making threats against the merchants. He hadn’t been able to speak of spellmaking with another conjurer since leaving his mother and sister in Bristol.

  Ethan slept poorly, rousing himself several times to put more wood in the stove. When at last daylight began to seep into his room around the edges of the shuttered windows, he climbed out of bed, washed his face with the water on his stove, and dressed.

  After a quick breakfast—hard cheese and the last of the bread he had bought at Faneuil Hall the day before—he set out for Wentworth’s Wharf. Already wharfmen and laborers crowded the cobblestone lanes along the South End waterfront, all of them bundled in coats and wearing woolen Monmouth caps. The wind had died down and the skies had cleared to a crisp, bright blue, but the air remained frigid. As Ethan walked, his breath billowed before him in swirling clouds of vapor.

  Wentworth’s Wharf jutted out into the calm waters of Boston Harbor just north of the Town Dock. It was shorter by far than Long Wharf and even Hancock’s Wharf, but it was one of the longer piers on the waterfront. Ethan walked the length of it and then nearly all the way back to Ann Street before finally spotting the Muirenn tied to a pair of bollards between two larger ships. She was a pink, small but well cared for. Her gangplank was up and she sat heavy in the water, no doubt still laden with cargo. Ethan approached the vessel, which at first glance appeared to be deserted.

  “Ahoy, the Muirenn!” he called.

  At first, no one answered, and he wondered if perhaps all the crew, including her captain, had spent the night in the city. But then he heard someone moving belowdecks and a moment later a faint call of “Ahoy!”

  A moment later, a man appeared at the rails amidships. He was tall and spear thin, with a long face darkened by an unkempt beard. He wore only a silk shirt and breeches, but appeared unaffected by the cold.

  “What can I do for ya, friend?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Captain Ramsey.”

  The man grinned, exposing crooked, yellow teeth. “That would be me. And you are?”

  “My name is Ethan Kaille. I’m a thieftaker.”

  Ramsey’s grin faded and the look in his pale eyes turned flinty. “I don’ peddle stolen goods, thieftaker. I never have. Anyone who says different is lyin’”

  “I believe you,” Ethan said.

  “An’ yet ya’re here.”

  “I’m wondering if I can have a word with you in private, Captain.”

  Ramsey regarded him briefly, then glanced up and down the wharf, opening his arms wide. “There’s no one here. I think this is private enough.”

  “Very well. I was hired by two men who claim to know you. Merchants. They say you’ve been threatening them.”

  This time, the captain’s smile was forced and sour. “I should’ve known,” he said. “Forrs an’ Keller.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why would they hire a thieftaker? I didn’ steal from them.”

  “No, but as I say, you’ve been making threats.”

  “Ya’re damn right I have! I’ll be followin’ through on them before long.” He paused, staring at Ethan again. “Kaille was it?”

  “Yes, sir. Ethan Kaille.”

  “You should go, Mister Kaille. This don’ concern you. An’ there’s nothin’ you can do t’ stop me.”

  He walked away from the rails.

  “Are you a speller, Captain Ramsey?” Ethan called after him.

  Ramsey stopped, turned slowly to face him again.

  “I think ya know I am,” he said. “An’ I’ll wager every shilling I’ve got left that ya’re one, too. Tha’s why they hired ya, isn’ it? They’re afraid of what I’ll do t’ them, so they’ve hired a speller for protection. Isn’ tha’ right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, this is another matter then,” Ramsey said. He crossed back to the rails and lowered the gangplank. Ethan took hold of it from below and together they set it in place.

  “Ya can board, Kaille,” Ramsey said before disappearing from view.

  Ethan ascended the plank and stepped onto the ship, only to find the decks empty. Wary, he pulled his knife from his belt and pushed up his sleeve. A moment later, though, Ramsey emerged from the hold bearing a bottle of what appeared to be Madeira wine and two pewter cups.

  “I haven’ much t’ eat,” he said. “But I can at least offer ya a bit o’ wine.” He eyed Ethan’s knife. “Put that away ’fore someone gets hurt.” He perched on the rail and waved Ethan over.

  Ethan sat beside him and took an offered cup. Ramsey poured a bit of wine into it and then poured substantially more into his own.

  “Wha’ shall we drink to?” he asked. Before Ethan could respond, he said, “How ’bout my father?”

  “Of course,” Ethan said.

  The captain raised his cup. “T’ Captain Nathaniel Ramsey. May a steady wind ever fill his sails.”

  “To Nathaniel Ramsey,” Ethan repeated, and sipped his wine.

  “I don’ imagine Forrs an’ Keller told you much ’bout him,” Ramsey said, after nearly draining his cup. “They would’ve said tha’ he accused ’em o’ stealin’ from him, a charge they deny, o’ course. It seems they also told ya he was a speller. An’ I would hazard a guess tha’ they made him sound a bit mad. Prob’ly they say th’ same ’bout me.”

  Ethan gazed into his cup. “They never said that he was mad. They do feel that he might have mistaken their motives at the end and led you to believe—”

  “Did they tell ya how he died?” Ramsey asked.

  “No.”

  “He hanged himself.” Ramsey pointed up at the starboard side of the main yard. “Right there.”

  Ethan said nothing.

  “He pro’bly was mad at th’ end. My mum died fourteen years ago, an’ he never really got over that. But he was all right as long as he could sail an’ turn some profit from his runs up an’ down th’ coast. Forrs an’ Keller had him tradin’ with th’ French, buyin’ molasses from Martinique an’ sellin’ it t’ them at a cut rate so they could turn ’round an’ sell it at a handsome profit t’ rum distillers here in Boston an’ over in Medford. They paid him less an’ less, an’ when he complained, they threatened t’ turn him over t’ th’ customs boys. By th’ end, he was barely makin’ enough t’ cover his costs an’ pay his crew.”

  “Why didn’t he just stop doing business with them?”

  Ramsay’s smile was fleeting, bitter. “He did. Tha’s why he killed himself. He told ’em he wouldn’ run th’ route anymore, an’ that if they wanted t’ go t’ customs, they could. He’d tell th’ custom boys everythin’. So Forrs an’ Keller told him tha’ they knew he was a witch, an’ that I was, too. An’ they said that unless he wanted both of us t’ swing, he’d ‘get back on his damned ship an’ get his arse down to Martinique.’” He looked at Ethan and their eyes locked. “Their words,” he said. “Not mine.”

  Ethan didn’t know what to say. He tore his gaze away and stared out over the sunlit waters of the harbor.

  “Ya don’ believe me.”

  Actually, Ethan did believe hi
m. Every word. But he had taken the merchants’ money. He had promised them that he would convince Ramsey to renounce his claim to vengeance, or, failing that, that he would guard them from his spells.

  “It’s not a matter of what I believe,” he said. “I told Forrs and Keller that I’d protect them, and in return for that promise they gave me a good bit of coin.”

  “Do ya do that often, Kaille? Take money in exchange for promises ya can’t keep?”

  Ethan heard the goad in Ramsey’s question and chose to ignore it.

  “You’ve frightened them,” he said instead. “They’re terrified of what you might do. I know it’s small compensation, but maybe you can take some satisfaction in that.”

  Ramsey poured himself more wine. “I can. I like th’ idea of them two bein’ scared. I’m jus’ not willin’ t’ stop there.”

  “They’ll pay you. They sent me to negotiate in their stead. You can name your price.”

  “Ya mean I can take th’ money tha’ should o’ been my father’s in th’ first place?”

  Ethan frowned. “I have no interest in fighting for these men, Ramsey. But to be absolutely clear, my mistake was taking money from men who couldn’t be trusted. I made no promises that I couldn’t keep.”

  The captain had raised his cup to his lips once more, but he hesitated now, then lowered it, all the while staring hard at Ethan. “Ya think ya’re good enough with spells t’ stop me from killin’ them?”

  “I don’t want it to come to that.”

  “Then ya should return their money, ’cause it’s goin’ to.”

  Ethan drank the rest of his wine, set the cup on the gunwale, and stood. He held out his hand to Ramsey. After a moment, the young man gripped it.

  “You have my deepest condolences, Captain.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I live on Cooper’s Alley, above Dall’s Cooperage, and if I’m not there, you can leave word for me at the Dowsing Rod on Sudbury Street. Just in case you change your mind.”

  Ethan stepped onto the gangplank and walked back down to the wharf.

  “Kaille!”

  He turned. Ramsey stood at the rails again.

  “Ya should ask yarself if men like Forrs an’ Keller are really worth dyin’ for.”

  “And you should do the same,” Ethan said.

  A faint smile touched the captain’s lips. He raised his cup once more, as if in salute. Then he drained it and walked away from the rails.

  Reluctantly, Ethan walked back to Ann Street and followed the waterfront southward past Fort Hill and the South Battery, to Tileston’s Wharf. There a wharfman who was loading barrels of wine on to a cart pointed him to Keller’s warehouse.

  Ethan found the merchant inside in a small office in the back of the building, standing before a writing desk and poring over a ledger.

  At the scrape of Ethan’s shoe on the office floor, Keller glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Yes, what is it?” An instant later, his eyes widened in recognition. “Mister Kaille! Come in, come in!” His tone was welcoming, but he quickly closed the ledger and shut and locked the desk.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “You have news for us?” the man asked. Before Ethan could say anything, the merchant’s brow creased. “Deron should be here.” He stepped past Ethan to the office doorway and beckoned to a worker. “Go get Mister Forrs. Tell him Kaille is here.”

  The laborer hurried off.

  Turning back to Ethan, Keller smiled weakly. “He shouldn’t be long.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you find him? Have you spoken to Nathaniel’s son?”

  “Yes, sir, I have.”

  “And has he agreed to put an end to these threats?”

  Ethan weighed the question briefly. “I think you’re right, sir. We should wait for Mister Forrs.”

  “Yes, of course.” Keller smiled again, but he seemed not to know what to do with himself.

  “Don’t let me keep you from your work, sir,” Ethan said.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  The merchant walked stiffly back to his desk, opened it, and pulled out the ledger he had been studying when Ethan arrived. Ethan lingered by the doorway, watching for the laborer and Forrs. Sooner than he might have expected, he spotted them striding toward the office, the merchant leaning on his cane but keeping pace with the laborer.

  Reaching Keller’s office, Forrs strode past Ethan to the middle of the room, looked first at Keller, then at Ethan, and said, “Well, what’s happened?”

  “He talked to Nathaniel’s boy,” Keller said.

  “And?” Forrs asked. “Out with it, Mister Kaille.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me how Captain Ramsey the elder died?” Ethan asked, eyeing both men. “That was a pertinent bit of information, don’t you think?”

  “We told you Nathaniel hadn’t been well,” Forrs said, “that he was imagining things.”

  Ethan shook his head. “That’s not the same.”

  Forrs waved his hand impatiently. “Fine. We should have told you. Now, what did the boy say? Did you tell him we’d pay to end this matter?”

  “He doesn’t want your money,” Ethan said. “And he remains determined to have his revenge.”

  The color fled Keller’s cheeks.

  Forrs rapped his cane on the floor and muttered, “Damn.” Glaring at Ethan he said, “We expected more of you, Mister Kaille. You explained to him that you would be guarding us, that his witchery would be met by yours?”

  “I told him that the two of you were under my protection.” Ethan smiled faintly, much as Ramsey had aboard the Muirenn. “He didn’t seem to be impressed.”

  “So, he is a witch,” Keller said. “You’re certain of this?”

  It was all Ethan could do not to laugh at the man. Witches were the stuff of legend, of nightmare. Witchery was a word used by preachers to frighten their flocks. “He’s a conjurer,” Ethan said, using the word spellers preferred. “Just as am I. And like me, he’s confident in his abilities.”

  “So what do we do now?” Keller asked, his voice unsteady.

  Ethan thought back to his encounter with Ramsey. “He still has cargo in his hold. I expect he’ll spend the day offloading his goods and preparing to sail. I’ll keep an eye on him and his ship, and I won’t let him get near you.”

  Forrs nodded curtly. “See that you don’t.”

  Ethan nodded to both men, left the warehouse, and started back toward Wentworth’s Wharf. His leg was starting to hurt, his limp growing more pronounced with every step. Before reaching the wharf, he turned into a narrow lane and, after making certain that no one could see him, drew his blade and bared his forearm. Ramsey would sense a conjuring, but at this distance he wouldn’t know what kind of spell Ethan had cast.

  Cutting himself, he whispered, “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood. Power pulsed in the cobblestones and the walls of nearby buildings. Reg winked into view beside him, eyeing him avidly. It sometimes seemed to Ethan that the old ghost could sense a coming battle the way a sea captain might smell a storm riding a freshening breeze.

  “Can you feel Ramsey’s power?” Ethan asked the shade.

  Reg nodded.

  “Is he as skilled as I am?”

  The old warrior hesitated, then nodded again.

  “Great,” Ethan said. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  Reg grinned at that before fading from view.

  Ethan left the alley and resumed his walk to the wharf. His concealment spell rendered him essentially invisible to the men and women walking the streets of Boston. A truly powerful conjurer might see through the charm, but Ethan didn’t believe that Ramsey could.

  As he neared the wharf, he slowed, searching for a vantage point from which he could see the Muirenn. With the vessel moored where it was, however, Ethan had little choice but to position himself beside a bollard uncomfortably close to Ramsey’s ship. He could see the young captain clearly; he could
hear him shouting orders to his men. Ethan settled in for what promised to be a long, cold day.

  Oddly, Ramsey remained above decks for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. At times he leaned against the rails, appearing to banter with his men. Occasionally he walked the deck, as if inspecting his crew’s work. But at no point did Ethan lose sight of him. It almost seemed that Ramsey knew he was being watched, and that he wished to make himself as easy to find as possible. Ethan wondered if the captain, upon sensing Ethan’s conjuring earlier in the day, had guessed correctly at what sort of spell he had cast and knew that he was near.

  By late afternoon, Ethan could see that most of the Muirenn’s cargo had been offloaded. The ship rode much higher in the harbor waters, and most of her crew had settled themselves on the rails. Ramsey still stood in plain view and now he said something to his men that drew a cheer.

  An instant later, Ethan felt a pulse of conjuring power. A spinning wheel of light appeared directly above the ship, throwing off sparks of gold and blue, orange and green, silver and red. At the same time, a ghostly figure appeared beside Ramsey. He was stooped, a man even older than Uncle Reg. Like Ethan’s spirit guide, this figure glowed, though with a shade of deep aqua that reminded Ethan of the sea on a calm summer morning.

  Ramsey’s crew paid no attention to the ghost; unless they too were conjurers, they couldn’t see him. But they cheered and whistled at the wheel of light. Apparently they knew their captain was a speller, and minded not at all.

  The captain left the rail and walked to the center of the deck. Ethan could barely see him, though he did see someone brandish a knife and hold it high overhead so that the blade gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Then the blade descended and Ethan felt the thrum of a second spell in the ground beneath his feet. Jets of fire burst from the ship, drawing frightened stares from men and women walking on the street near the wharf. The first conjuring had been an illusion spell, a weak casting conjured from the air or from water. But even from a distance, Ethan felt the heat of these flames and knew that this had been a blood conjuring.