“So be it,” Ethan muttered, his eyes closed, his hand still trembling with the might of his conjuring. He didn’t yet know how to stop this conjurer, whoever he was, from drawing upon his power to hurt others. But at least he could fight back in this way.
After some time, Ethan pulled his hand away from the sailor’s chest. Leaning forward, he opened the slit in the man’s clothes to examine the wound. There was a livid scar there, but the skin was closed, the bleeding had stopped.
“Will he live?” the sailor asked.
“I don’t know.” Ethan was too weary to stand. He remained on his knees, his head bowed.
“What’s all this?”
He knew that voice too well. Greenleaf had come even sooner than he expected.
The sheriff shouldered his way through the crowd, only stopping when he stood directly over Ethan.
“Kaille. I should have known that I’d find you at the middle of it.” He looked around at the other faces. “Well, what happened here?”
For several seconds no one spoke. Then one of the onlookers pointed at the sleeping laborer and said, “That cove started it.” He pointed at the smaller laborer. “He started fighting with this one here. Then that one-the one you talked to-he stepped in and put this fellow down with one punch.”
“Kaille did that?” the sheriff said, his tone as doubtful as such a claim deserved. “And what about these two? Who cut you?” he asked the kneeling sailor.
“That same cove.”
“What happened to your friend?”
The sailor glanced at Ethan and then at his wounded companion, whose shirt no longer had any blood on it.
“That man hit him,” Ethan said before the sailor could answer. He stood and pointed at the laborer. “It was quite a blow. This man hasn’t moved since.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What is this all about, Kaille? Does it have anything to do with…” He looked at the others, appearing unsure of himself. “With those other incidents we’ve discussed?”
“Aye, it might. I can’t yet be certain.”
“Of course you can’t. But you’re at the center of it again, aren’t you? Or did Ramsey do this, too?” Greenleaf surveyed the wharf one last time, regarding the other men and Ethan with suspicion and disgust in equal measure. “You should get that one to a surgeon,” he said, waving a hand vaguely at the wounded sailor. “And the rest of you should get back to your jobs.” He leveled a finger at Ethan. “That includes you.”
Greenleaf turned smartly and left them. Ethan watched him go, feeling like he had cheated at cards and gotten away with it.
“The sheriff is right,” he said to the sailor with the gash on his arm. “Take your friend to a surgeon. I’ve done what I can for him, but he lost a lot of blood.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“I believe I should be thanking you.” He encompassed the others in his glance. “All of you.”
“I don’t usually hold with your kind,” said one man in the crowd. “But if you can save that lad’s life … well, your devilry can’t be all bad.”
Ethan wasn’t sure what to say. He nodded to the man.
“I wish I could do what you did to that cove’s knife,” another man said. “You’d be handy to have around in a fight.”
“My thanks, sir. I’m grateful to you for not telling the sheriff what you saw.”
“You won’t find a snitch on this wharf,” the first man said, his tone hardening. “Nor on any other. You work the waterfront, you keep your mouth shut.” He grinned. “Besides, there aren’t too many down here who care for Greenleaf, that is unless you count the customs boys.”
Others laughed at this, including Ethan.
“I should be going,” he said. “Again, thank you.”
“What’s your name?” the man asked before Ethan could walk away.
After what they had done for him, he couldn’t very well refuse to answer. “Ethan Kaille.”
“O’ course,” one of the older men said. “From the Ruby Blade.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a thieftaker, aren’t you?”
“I am.” He hesitated, wondering if he was about to give offense. “I know that none of you here would inform on someone, but I have to ask: Do you know a captain named Nate Ramsey?”
“I knew his father,” the older man said. “Haven’t see the son since summer.”
No one else said a word.
“Very well. Good day.”
Ethan returned to King Street and threaded his way through the South End lanes toward the Dowsing Rod. Uncle Reg walked beside him, his glow deepening in the shadows of the narrow streets.
“The spell that started the fight-it came from me, didn’t it? Like the spells I felt the night of the funeral?”
Reg nodded.
“I didn’t cast it.” But Ethan knew his denial rang hollow. Whatever his intention, his power had sparked violence. Again.
Chapter Twelve
Once back in the Dowser, Ethan found that he was reluctant to leave the tavern again. He hated admitting to himself that he was afraid, but he could not deny that he feared setting off more conflicts. At least in the tavern, sitting by himself at the rear of the great room, he did not risk encounters with armed soldiers or excitable mobs.
As with everything else he had experienced during the course of the past week, his apprehension turned his thoughts to Nate Ramsey. The captain knew him too well; he understood that Ethan would choose to hide himself rather than put others at risk. Which meant that Ethan was doing exactly what Ramsey wanted him to do.
If Ramsey was behind these conjurings.
Damn him! Ethan thought. Self-doubt, confusion, fear-these were the captain’s favored currencies. Ethan might not have proof of the man’s return to Boston, but if Ramsey was not responsible for the malign spells cast in recent days, he didn’t want to meet the conjurer who was. Knowing for certain that there were two men who could bedevil him so was almost more than Ethan thought he could bear.
Night fell, the Dowser filled up once more. Kannice had left Ethan to his thoughts throughout the afternoon, but now she approached his table with uncharacteristic diffidence.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.
“Aye. I’m fine.”
She frowned at that. “You’re not fine,” she said, sounding more like herself. “You’ve been sitting here for hours. Not that I mind, but I expected you to be down at the waterfront, or asking questions of Janna, or risking a beating by going to see Sephira Pryce and her conjurer.”
“Well, I would. But the food and ale here are too good. I can’t bring myself to leave.”
“Ethan,” she said, growling his name, an eyebrow cocked.
“Sit,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his own.
Her expression didn’t change, but she lowered herself into the chair.
“I was at the waterfront,” he said, dropping his voice. “While I was there I felt a spell, and it caused another fight. A man nearly died, and I had to conjure to protect myself. At least two dozen men saw me do it.”
“The first spell-your ghost says it came from you?”
“Aye. So I’m here because I fear that if I’m out on the street, I’ll do more harm than good. Probably I should go back to my room on Cooper’s Alley. That would be safest.”
She took his hand. “No, you should stay here.”
“Eventually, I’ll have to brave the world again. I’m not going to find the conjurer who’s responsible for these spells by sitting at this table, gorging myself on your fine chowders and the Kent pale.”