“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 welclass="underline" 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.