The man who had taken the soldier’s sword regarded Ethan with scorn, as Ethan had known he would. Why would these men want to end the conflict when they had gotten the better of its first skirmish? Another of the men called to his companions and pointed in the direction of the barracks. The other men gazed that way and fell silent.
Ethan didn’t have to look to know what they saw, but still he turned. The soldier was striding down the center of the street, leading nine uniformed men, all of them carrying clubs.
The workers took shelter in the rope yard warehouse. Upon reaching the entrance to Gray’s enterprise, the soldiers followed them inside.
“Damn!” Ethan started toward the building, then stopped himself, unsure of how to proceed. “What should I do?” he asked Reg.
The ghost lifted an arm and pointed northward, away from the warehouse.
“I should go to the barracks?”
Reg shook his head and pointed a second time, more emphatically.
“You’re saying I should leave.”
Reg nodded.
“But I’m responsible. The spells that started this came from me.”
Again the ghost nodded, lifting his arm once more.
“You think they’ll continue to fight until I’m gone.”
The ghost offered no reply. He simply stared at Ethan, waiting.
Ethan knew that Reg was probably right, although he knew as well that there were spells he could use to keep the men from killing one another. The question was, how many times could he cast a sleep spell or some other sort of protective conjuring in front of others before someone decided to have him hanged for a witch? He had been lucky two days before on Long Wharf, and before that on the night of Chris Seider’s funeral. He couldn’t expect to be so fortunate forever.
He heard shouts coming from within the warehouse, and he watched as several more journeymen entered the building, all of them carrying woldring sticks, which they used to wind rope, but which would serve as cudgels as well. He had not felt another spell for several minutes, but apparently one wasn’t needed; like a fire burning bright, this fight needed no more kindling.
Chapter Thirteen
With one last glance at the warehouse, Ethan left Hutchinson Street, choosing to circle the base of Fort Hill rather than risk passing too close to Green’s Barracks. He scanned the harbor and wharves as he walked, but his search for Nate Ramsey’s ship proved as fruitless this morning as it had every time before.
Willing to try anything to keep the unseen conjurer from using him in this way, Ethan stopped on a stretch of empty road between the South Battery and Milk Street and pulled his pouch of mullein from the pocket of his coat.
“Tegimen ex verbasco evocatum,” he said. Warding, conjured from mullein. The spell hummed in the street, a declaration to his enemy.
Ethan didn’t know if the spell would work as he intended, but he had to make the attempt. If he could protect himself and those around him, he would have a better chance of finding whoever it was who had been casting these spells.
Shielded by his conjuring, Ethan continued on to the North End and what might have been the most disreputable tavern in all of Boston. The Crow’s Nest sat at the southern extreme of Paddy’s Alley, near the waterfront. Where Kannice did all she could to keep the Dowsing Rod free of fights, whoring, and other questionable behavior, the Crow’s Nest seemed to exist for those things. It was run-down and filthy. The ale served there was swill; Ethan had never dared taste the food. He wasn’t entirely sure that the place served any. But for those who trafficked in stolen goods-and thus, for thieftakers attempting to recover those items-the Nest might well have been the most important establishment in the city.
In the ten years since Ethan’s return to Boston from the plantation in the Caribbean where he labored as a prisoner, the Crow’s Nest had seen a succession of ill-starred proprietors. Some had died; others had been transported to the Caribbean for crimes they might or might not have committed. The current owner, Joseph Duncan, was a slight, excitable Scotsman who had barely survived a bout with small pox back in 1764. His face was pitted and scarred from the distemper.
When Ethan entered the tavern, Dunc was standing at the bar, reading a newspaper, and, as always, puffing on a tobacco pipe and sending clouds of sweet smoke into the rafters.
Seeing Ethan, he turned his back on the door and raised the paper so that it hid his face.
Ethan took off his hat and his gloves and stepped to the bar, planting himself beside the man. He slid a half shilling onto the worn wood.
“An ale,” he said to the barkeep.
The man dropped the coin into the till and filled a tankard.
Ethan had no intention of drinking the stuff-it looked and tasted enough like horse piss to make Ethan suspicious of its origins. But he also wasn’t going to pay Duncan for the information he sought, so he thought that buying an ale was the least he could do.
Picking up the tankard, he turned and leaned back against the bar, surveying the tavern. The men who sat at tables in pairs and groups of three and four appeared perfectly at home amid the squalor of the Nest, which told Ethan everything he needed to know about them.
Dunc still had not acknowledged him, though the amount of smoke billowing from his pipe seemed to have increased.
“You can’t ignore me forever, Dunc.”
“Who says I can’t?” he answered from behind the paper.
“Imago ex cervisia evocata,” Ethan said, his voice low. Illusion, conjured from ale.
The pulse of this spell was weaker than most of the others Ethan cast because it was an elemental spell. But it did what he had hoped it would: Illusory flames erupted from the pages of the Gazette.
Dunc jumped, dropped the paper to the floor, and stamped on it.
Ethan whispered. “Fini imaginem ex cervisia evocatam.” Again, power pulsed, and the illusion vanished.
The other men in the tavern stared at Dunc the way they would at a lunatic.
“You’re a bit skittish, aren’t you?” Ethan said, grinning.
Dunc pulled the pipe from between his yellow teeth. “That wasn’t funny, Kaille.”
“I’d have to disagree.”
Dunc put the pipe back in his mouth with a click of teeth on clay. “What do you want, anyway?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You have to ask?”
“I’m not helping you find anything. You come in here every time you have a new job, and you seem to think it’s up to me to find what you were hired to retrieve. Well, I’m through with that.” Dunc gave a nasty smile. “Go talk to Pryce. Maybe she’ll help you.”
“You’re right, Dunc.”
“Well, you can think whatever you want, but-” He blinked. “What?”
“I said you’re right. I shouldn’t be asking you to do my work for me. So instead, allow me to help you out.”
He pulled Paxton’s list of pilfered goods from his pocket and unfolded it. All the while, Dunc watched him the way a fox would a hound.
“What’s that?”
“The list of items I’m looking for.”
“I just told you-”
Ethan held a finger inches in front of the Scot’s nose, stopping him. “I heard you, Dunc. These things were stolen from the home of Charles Paxton.”
“You’re working for Paxton?” He grinned. “Things that bad then?”
“If any of these items come through the Nest, and word of it gets back to the customs boys, they’ll shut you down. Even Greenleaf won’t be able to talk them out of it.”
Dunc’s smile faded slowly. “Aye, you’re probably right.” He took the list from Ethan and perused it.
“Have you seen any of it?” Ethan asked.
“Not yet. When was it pinched?”
“I don’t think it’s been more than two days.”
Dunc handed him back the parchment. “Have you any idea who cracked the house?”
“I have no proof, but forced to guess, I’d say it was one of the regulars billeted over at Green’s Barracks.”