Two more spells surged through the ground in quick succession; the air around Ethan seemed alive with the power of Ramsey’s spells. Bright flames arced across the bow of the Muirenn, and another brilliant spinning light appeared over the ship, grander and more magnificent than the first.
The Muirenn’s crew let out shouts of approval and began to sing “Row Well Ye Mariners,” their voices loud and jovial, if somewhat off key.
They were halfway through the second verse when Ethan realized that he no longer saw any sign of Ramsey.
Ethan took a step toward the ship, rose onto his tiptoes. He could see several members of the crew, but not the captain.
“Damn!” he said, louder than he should have given that he was still concealed. Fortunately the wharf was nearly deserted.
Ramsey couldn’t have gone far. Of that much Ethan was sure. But too late he realized that the spells the captain had cast for his crew’s amusement might also have served to mask a concealment spell of his own. Ethan had felt several spells resonate through the wharf—how many had there been? And how many flames had he seen?
He ran up the dock to Ann Street and again threaded his way through the lanes and avenues of Cornhill and the South End, desperate now to reach Tileston’s Wharf. Ramsey had a head start on him, and he wasn’t hobbled by a bad leg.
Ethan had just turned onto Flounder Lane when the first pulse of conjuring power reached him. Fearing that he was already too late, he sprinted onto the wharf and toward Keller’s warehouse, gritting his teeth against the agony in his leg and feeling cold sweat on his face.
Nearing the warehouse, he saw laborers streaming out the door, all of them wild-eyed, frantic.
Ethan shoved past them, not caring that they couldn’t see him, that they wouldn’t know who or what had touched them. Once inside, he raced toward Keller’s office. Well before he reached it he halted. Ramsey’s spirit guide glowed brightly in the shadows. The old ghost looked Ethan’s way, seeming to see right through his concealment spell.
Power hummed in the floors and walls. Ramsey materialized just beside his ghost, knife in hand, his sleeve still pushed up to reveal his scarred forearm.
Ethan saw no sign of Keller.
“Are ya goin’ t’ show yarself, Kaille, or do ya jus’ plan t’ watch, th’ way ya watched my ship all day?”
Ethan hesitated, then pulled out his knife and cut himself. Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum, he recited to himself. End concealment, conjured from blood.
Power pulsed. Reg appeared beside him and immediately bared his teeth at the other ghost. Ethan held his knife ready and walked forward cautiously, his gaze fixed on the young captain. When he reached the door to Keller’s office, he chanced a quick glance inside. The merchant was still alive. He stood at his writing desk, hands at his side, sweat on his pallid face.
“I haven’ killed him yet, if that’s what ya’re wonderin’.”
“You were supposed to keep him away from me, Kaille!” Keller said. “Not chase him right into my warehouse.”
Ramsey glowered at the man. “Shut yar mouth.” To Ethan he said, “Ya shouldn’ ’ave come. I know they’ve paid ya, bu’ this isn’ yar concern.”
“I told you that I wouldn’t let you kill them,” Ethan said, positioning himself directly in front of Keller’s door. “I understand that you want vengeance. I would too, if I was in your place. But you won’t be killing anyone this evening.”
The captain smiled and gave a small shake of his head. For the span of a single heartbeat neither he nor Ethan moved. And then, at the same time, they slashed at their forearms and shouted spells.
“Tegimen! Ex cruore evocatum!” Ethan said. Warding! Conjured from blood!
The building trembled with the power of their conjurings.
Ethan didn’t hear what Ramsey said, but the effect was unmistakable. Fire. It flew from the captain’s hand, hissing like some nightmare beast, and hammered at Ethan, staggering him, seeming to sear his flesh.
Fire spread to the walls of the warehouse, but Ethan was unhurt, and so was the merchant cowering behind him. The warding had held.
Ramsey drew blood again; so did Ethan. Ethan warded himself again. But this time the captain didn’t direct his fire spell at him or at Keller. Instead he threw it at those walls that weren’t yet ablaze.
“I don’t care how he dies!” the man shouted over the growing roar of the flames. “And I don’t care if I die with him!”
Smoke had started to fill the building. The heat was already growing unbearable.
Ethan cut himself again. “Discuti ex cruore evocatus!” Shatter, conjured from blood!
Ramsey howled and collapsed to the floor, clutching his leg. Ethan hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but he wasn’t about to let the fool bring down the building around them.
“Come on!” he called to Keller.
He strode to where the captain lay and stooped to lift him. Ramsey had already cut himself again.
“Ignis ex cruore evocatus,” he heard the man say through gritted teeth. Fire, conjured from blood.
Instantly, Ethan’s coat was ablaze, flames licking at his face and neck. He dropped to the floor, rolled from side to side trying to put out the fire.
He heard the captain say something else, felt power in the warehouse floor. But by the time his coat was no longer burning it was too late for him to save Keller. Whatever spell Ramsey had used—perhaps a shattering spell directed at the merchant’s neck—appeared to have killed the man instantly. Ethan climbed to his feet, his eyes watering, his lungs burning. Ramsey stared up at him, his knife held ready. Ethan sheathed his own blade, lifted the captain to his feet, and then slung the man over his shoulder.
They barely made it out of the warehouse before a section of the roof collapsed. A bucket brigade had already formed, with men scooping water out of the harbor. But they didn’t even attempt to quell the blaze, choosing instead to douse the adjacent buildings and keep the flames from spreading.
“Was there anyone else inside?” a man asked as Ethan lowered Ramsey to the ground.
“Isaac Keller,” Ethan said. “We tried to reach him, but it was too late.”
The man nodded, his expression grim. He went back to helping with the buckets.
“Forrs would’ve told ya t’ let me die,” Ramsey said quietly.
“Aye, but ten pounds and a promise of more only buys so much.”
Ramsey grinned. “I like ya, Kaille. I think we could’ve been friends. I’m sorry tha’ won’ be possible.”
Ethan opened his mouth to respond; he never got the chance. With the fire raging inside the warehouse and Keller dead, it never occurred to Ethan to wonder what had become of Ramsey’s blade. As it turned out, it was still in the captain’s hand.
Ramsey slashed at his own forearm, the steel flashing in the golden light of the setting sun. Ethan’s hand flew to the hilt of his knife, but he knew that he couldn’t possibly ward himself in time.
“Dormite ex cruore evocatum,” he heard Ramsey say. Slumber, conjured from blood.
“Ramsey, no…” But already he was falling, sleep taking him.
#
“Kaille. Kaille, get up.”
The voice seemed to reach Ethan from far off. The hard toe of the boot digging insistently into his side felt decidedly closer.
He opened his eyes to a sky filled with bright stars. A bulky figure loomed over him. Sitting up, he felt his world pitch and roll, as if he were at sea in the midst of a storm. He squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds. When he opened them again, he felt marginally better.
“What happened?”
He squinted up at the man standing beside him.
“Is that you, Sheriff?”
“Aye,” Greenleaf said. “Tell me what happened.”
Ethan climbed to his feet, swayed slightly. “Ramsey put me to sleep with a spell. He had already killed Keller and burnt his warehouse to the ground.”
“Well, he managed to kill Forrs, too. It
looks like he snapped the man’s neck.”
Ethan closed his eyes again, exhaled heavily. “I made an utter mess of this.”
“That you did.”
“Where is Ramsey now?”
The sheriff appeared as little more than a shadow against the night sky, but Ethan saw him nod toward the harbor.
“He’s put out to sea. By the time I knew enough to look for him, the Muirenn had left Wentworth’s Wharf. I doubt we’ll see him in Boston again.” He turned to Ethan. “And that leaves me with a problem. Two merchants are dead, and I have no one to hold accountable.”
“Except me.”
“My guess is that both of them were killed with witchery. And you’re a witch.”
“You gave me your word.”
“And you swore to protect Forrs and Keller!” Greenleaf said, his voice rising. “Do you really think their families care what I promised you?”
“Probably not.”
Greenleaf couldn’t take Ethan on his own; they both knew it. The sheriff might have been bigger and stronger, but Ethan could conjure. Still, Ethan had no desire to flee Boston and live the rest of his life as an outlaw.
“Did you know that Ramsey’s father killed himself?” he asked. “Forrs and Keller had him running French molasses, which they then sold to the local distillers. They kept lowering the price they paid him, and when he complained they threatened to have him and his son hanged as witches. They paid us both with blood money.”
“The pup tell you that?”
“Yes. And I believe him.”
The sheriff sighed. “To be honest, I believe it, too.”
“You can try to arrest me, Sheriff. But I won’t be taken easily, and we both know I have the means to fight you.”
Greenleaf said nothing.
“So what are you going to do?” Ethan asked after some time.
The sheriff shrugged. “There isn’t much I can do. You know as well as I do, Kaille: Smugglers like Forrs and Keller get killed all the time without a murderer being found. It’s the risk they take.”
Ethan grinned. “Thank you.”
“I don’t expect we’ll ever have need to speak of this again.”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Go home, Kaille.”
Ethan walked slowly from the wharf, still dazed from Ramsey’s sleeping spell. The burns on his neck and jaw ached. After walking only a block or so, he stopped in an empty lane, cut himself, and healed the raw, blistered skin as best he could. Then he continued on, though not toward home. Instead, he made his way to the Dowsing Rod.
The tavern was crowded and boisterous when he arrived, the air inside warm and heavy with welcoming scents: sweet pipe smoke and musty ale, fresh-baked bread and savory stew. Men were clustered around the bar, speaking loudly, laughing, many of them with arms draped around one another’s shoulders. Most of the tables near the back of the tavern’s great room sat empty.
A few of the conversations broke off as Ethan pushed his way to the bar. Belatedly, he realized that his coat had been burned and that he must look a mess. Abruptly self-conscious, he thought about leaving. Before he could, Kannice appeared before him, grinning and holding out a tankard.
“Have you heard?” she asked, shouting over the din.
“Heard what?”
“News from London! The war’s over. We’ve signed a treaty with the French!”
A man beside Ethan called out, “God save the king!” Immediately the rest of the throng launched into a chorus of the song of the same title, which in recent years had become an anthem of sorts for subjects of the Crown on both sides of the Atlantic.
“That’s good news,” Ethan said, taking the offered tankard. But already his mind had turned to Nate Ramsey and his father, to embargoes among warring nations and contraband French molasses. Seven years of warfare finished now because of a piece of paper signed three thousand miles away. How many lives might have been spared had peace come six months earlier? Or a year? Tens of thousands of soldiers might still be alive. And perhaps as well an old captain and two Boston merchants.
“You don’t seem pleased,” Kannice said, her brow creasing.
“I am. Thank you for the ale.”
She motioned for him to follow and then walked out from behind the bar to the far end of the tavern. It was quieter here and they could speak without being overheard.
“You’re hurt,” she said, eyeing his neck and jaw. “And your coat has seen better days.”
“It was…there was an accident.”
She arched an eyebrow.
He didn’t know Kannice well, but everything he had heard about her and observed on his own told him that she was intelligent and that she missed nothing that happened within these walls. If people had been whispering about the convict, the mutineer who was also a witch, she would know it. And chances were, she wouldn’t want such a person frequenting her establishment.
He sipped his ale, placed the tankard on the nearest table. “Perhaps I should go,” he said.
“Is it true then?” she asked quietly. “Are you a witch?”
He had been deflecting questions like this one for most of his life, choosing his words with great care, resorting to half-truths, even lying outright when left with no choice. But this time, speaking to this woman, after all that had happened this day, he didn’t want to evade or deceive. Still, after so many years, candor came grudgingly.
“Why? Do you allow witches in your tavern?”
“I allow anyone in the Dowser, as long as they pay for their food and drink and don’t cause trouble. I’m asking because I’m curious.”
He smiled. “About witches?”
“About you.”
Ethan glanced down at the table but then forced himself to meet her gaze again. “We don’t call ourselves witches. We’re conjurers, spellmakers, spellers even. Preachers rail against witchery as a tool of the devil. I don’t believe there’s evil in what I do.”
“And did another speller do that to your coat, or did you light yourself on fire?”
He laughed. “That was someone else.”
“What happened to him?”
Ethan sobered, looked down again. “He killed two men I was supposed to be protecting, and he got away.”
“The two who were here last night? With the sheriff?”
Had it just been last night? “Yes,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
His throat felt thick, and he knew that it would be some time before he forgave himself for failing the merchants, even with all they had done to Nathaniel Ramsey. But he couldn’t deny that he took some solace in being able to speak of it openly, without worrying that he might reveal too much.
“It was my fault,” he said.
“Well, that’s always the worst, isn’t it? It wouldn’t be so hard if you could blame someone else.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would.”
“Sit,” she said, tapping one of the chairs. “I’ll have Kelf bring you some stew.”
“All right.”
She started to walk away, but Ethan reached out and caught her hand in his own. Her skin felt cool, smooth. Kannice stopped, looked at their fingers, raised her eyes to his.
“Thank you,” he said.
She smiled, her cheeks coloring this one time.
Copyright (C) 2011 by D.B. Jackson
Art copyright (C) 2011 by Chris McGrath
David B. Coe/D.B. Jackson
PUBLISHED FICTION:
Novels:
Thieftaker, Book I of the Thieftaker Chronicles, Published under the name D. B. Jackson (Tor Books, July 2012)
Robin Hood, novelization of the movie Robin Hood, from Universal Studios, directed by Ridley Scott (Tor Books, April 2010).
The Dark-Eyes’ War, Book III of Blood of the Southlands (Tor Books, February 2010).
The Horsemen’s Gambit, Book II of Blood of the Southlands (Tor Books, January 2009).
The Sorcerers’ Plague, Book I of Blood of the Southla
nds (Tor Books, 2007)
Weavers of War, Book V of Winds of the Forelands (Tor Books, 2007).
Shapers of Darkness, Book IV of Winds of the Forelands (Tor Books, 2005).
Bonds of Vengeance, Book III of Winds of the Forelands (Tor Books, 2005).
Seeds of Betrayal, Book II of Winds of the Forelands (Tor Books, 2003).
Rules of Ascension, Book I of Winds of the Forelands (Tor Books, 2002).
Eagle-Sage, Book III of The LonTobyn Chronicle (Tor Books, 2000).
The Outlanders, Book II of The LonTobyn Chronicle (Tor Books, 1998).
Children of Amarid, Book I of The LonTobyn Chronicle (Tor Books, 1997).
Short Stories:
“A Spell of Vengeance,” Tor.Com, June 2012. Published under the name D. B. Jackson
“A Memory of Freedom,” Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine show, March 2012. Published under the name D. B. Jackson
“The Tavern Fire,” After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar, ed. Joshua Palmatier and Patricia Bray (DAW Books, March 2011). Published under the name D. B. Jackson.
“The Dragon Muse,” Dragon’s Lure, ed. Danielle Ackley-McPhail, Jennifer Ross, and Jeffrey
Lyman (Dark Quest Books, May 2010).
“Cassie’s Story,” Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Summer 2008.
“The Christmas Count,” SciFiction, June 27, 2005.
“Night of Two Moons,” Black Gate: Adventures in Fantasy Literature, vol. 1, no. 4, Summer 2002.
“The Lost Children,” Black Gate Magazine, publication pending.
A Spell of Vengeance Page 3
