Ethan glowered at him and then began to limp away. “Very well, Sheriff,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll get the information some other way. Good day.” He walked back to the street, but halted there and faced Greenleaf again. “And just so you know, I have been scouring the city. I’ve walked the length of the waterfront. All of it. Twice.”
“And what have you found?”
“Nothing. I’ve seen no sign of the Muirenn or Ramsey.”
“And yet you remain convinced that Ramsey is nearby.”
“Aye,” Ethan said. “Not because I wish to distract or alarm you, but because I’m determined that he will not catch us unawares again.”
He strode away, and when Greenleaf called his name, he was tempted to ignore him. But at last he turned and saw that the sheriff had reached the street, and was walking after him.
Greenleaf stopped a few yards short of where Ethan stood, thin-lipped, his eyes pale in the bright morning light.
“Morrison, you say?”
“Aye. With the Twenty-ninth. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had recently been a seaman, perhaps on a merchant vessel.” Many conjurers found employment with merchant captains, who were less squeamish than others about magick and more inclined to see the value of having a speller with them on the open seas.
“I’ll find out what I can.” Greenleaf stalked off without waiting for Ethan’s reply.
Ethan watched him go, and then trod through the snow and ice to the waterfront. Kannice was right, he knew: Ramsey was not so careless as to let himself be found before he was ready for a confrontation. But Ethan couldn’t bring himself to give up looking for him. He stood at the base of Fort Hill, near the South Battery, and he stared out over the icy surface of the harbor squinting against the sun and examining each ship he could see. None was a pink.
He thought about walking back to Gibbon’s Shipyard, to begin his now-familiar route along the city shore, but his legs had grown leaden, and already the cold of the harbor breeze was carving through his coat. Instead, he made his way to Long Wharf and ventured out onto the pier as far as Minot’s “T,” from whence he could survey the harbor without walking such a great distance.
The dock was less crowded than it would have been had the waters around the wharf not been frozen solid, but still it bustled with sailors walking to and from their ice-locked ships and laborers carrying goods from warehouses to the city. Most of the men ignored Ethan, although a few eyed him, wariness in their stances and miens. Ethan soon realized that he could see little more from the wharf than he could from the streets that ran along the waterfront. After lingering on the pier for a few minutes, shivering within his coat, he made up his mind to return to the Dowsing Rod for the breakfast Kannice had wanted him to eat when first he woke.
But as he followed the “T” back to the main branch of the wharf, a spell rumbled in the wood beneath his feet. He knew without looking that Reg had appeared at his shoulder, diaphanous in the sunlight; he didn’t spare the ghost so much as a glance. He started to scan the water again for Ramsey’s ship, but stopped himself. Instead he looked back toward the street for some sign of Morrison or his blue spectral guide. He saw neither.
Someone near him shouted a warning. Ethan spun. Two laborers circled each other, fists raised, as others gathered around them. One of the men, the larger of the two, threw a wild punch; the other ducked under it and dug his fist into the first man’s gut. This laborer doubled over but then charged his foe. They grappled for several seconds, each trying to get the advantage. After a minute or two of this, they fell to the ground, still grabbing at one another, flailing with their fists.
The men around them cheered; Ethan thought he heard several of them wagering on the outcome. Not wishing to see either man hurt because of a spell that had somehow drawn upon his conjuring power, he waded into the growing cluster of men, pushed his way past those closest to the fight, and tried to pull the men apart.
Several of the spectators voiced their displeasure, but two sailors joined Ethan in trying to separate the laborers.
The larger man bled from his nose and a cut on his lip. The other had a scrape on his forehead, but appeared to have gotten the better of their exchange.
“That’s enough!” Ethan said, looking at each man in turn.
The smaller man held up his hands. “It wasn’t me that started it.”
Ethan looked at the larger man, who struggled to free himself from the grasp of the two sailors and renew his assault. His eyes had a glazed look; Ethan recalled Gordon’s appearing much the same way that night in Will Pryor’s room.
“Get away from here,” Ethan said to the smaller laborer.
“I work here, an’ like I told you, it was him that took the first swing at me. Tell him to go.”
Ethan couldn’t very well explain to him that the other man was under the influence of a conjuring. “I know it’s not your fault-”
A cry of pain and shouted warnings stopped him.
Ethan pivoted again. The big laborer had thrown off both of the sailors. One of them was on his knees, bleeding from a gash on his arm, the other lay still, a bloody wound over his heart.
The laborer swung at Ethan, silver flashing in his hand. A knife. Ethan barely managed to throw himself backward and to the ground. The big man advanced on him, his fight with the other laborer now forgotten.
“Discuti ex cruore evocatum,” Ethan said, not caring who heard him. Shatter, conjured from blood.
The spell pulsed and the blade in the man’s hand fractured with a sound like the ringing of coins. A murmur swept through the crowd around them. The laborer, though, did not seem to notice that his weapon was broken.
Ethan clambered to his feet and, as the man reached him, raised his fists.
The laborer tried again to hit him, but Ethan dodged the blow and struck one of his own, catching the laborer flush on the jaw. The man staggered.
Ethan bit down on the inside of his cheek and silently cast a sleep spell. Dormite ex cruore evocatum.
The laborer swayed and finally collapsed.
The men around them watched him fall, but then turned their gazes to Ethan. Silent, fearful, hostile; they eyed him the way they might one of the natives who had fought alongside the French during the Seven Years’ War.
“What did you do to him?” one of them asked.
“I hit him,” Ethan said. “You saw me do it.”
“You didn’ hit him that hard. An’ we saw what you did to his knife, too.”
“I did nothing to his knife.”
Ethan pushed past the men to the two sailors. The one with the cut on his arm knelt beside his friend, who had not moved.
Ethan had used the prone man’s blood for the shatter spell, but more had stained his shirt, and blood still seeped from the wound. His breathing was shallow, and his skin had a sickly gray hue.
“He’s dyin’,” his friend said. He looked up, meeting Ethan’s gaze. He was younger than Ethan had thought; both of them were. “Can’t you help him?”
Ethan shook his head. “I’m not-”
“I don’t care if you’re a witch. I’ve sailed with your kind, and I will again. But I know you can help him.”
“It might be too late.”
“Try. Please.”
There was enough blood on this man’s arm and the other man’s chest for a healing spell, but the rest of the men were watching, listening.
Ethan decided that he didn’t care, at least not enough to allow the man to die.
He placed his hand over the wound, and whispered, “Remedium ex cruore evocatum.” Healing, conjured from blood.
Healing spells were different from other conjurings. They didn’t pulse so much as they echoed, like a distant pealing bell. He sensed the power flowing through his hand into the sailor’s chest. He knew that beneath his palm and the man’s coat and shirt, the skin was closing, knitting itself back together. He was but dimly aware of the men around him, but he guessed that they were watching. He knew that any one of them could well tell the sheriff what Ethan had done this day. Before nightfall, Greenleaf might finally have the evidence he needed to to send Ethan to the gallows.