“Aye. But I’m not sure there’s much to be gained in talking about it. He can do what he wants with my power, at a time and place of his choosing.”
“And you can do nothing to stop him?”
“Wardings don’t work, even sophisticated ones. And I can’t hurt an illusion. I believe there may be another man working with him-a soldier with the Twenty-ninth Regiment who’s billeted at Murray’s Barracks. But on this, of all nights, I won’t be able to get near him. The last I saw of him, he was guarding the Town House with his comrades.”
“We can use a concealment spell. Perhaps we can get close enough to speak with him when he is no longer on duty.”
In spite of everything, Ethan smiled at his use of the word “we.”
“Thank you, Mariz.”
“Tell me about these wardings you have tried.”
Ethan described for him the spell he had taught himself using the herbs he purchased at the Fat Spider.
“I have never cast such a warding myself, but I know that in Portugal, there are no herbs more valued for protection spells than the three Miss Windcatcher sold you.”
“Right,” Ethan said. “The spell should work, but for some reason it doesn’t.”
“Then let us find the soldier; perhaps he can explain this.”
“All right.”
Mariz slipped back inside to tell Sephira that they would be leaving for a time. He returned moments later.
Ethan raised his blade to the back of his hand, intending to cast the concealment spell. Mariz, though, put out a hand to stop him.
“I will cast it,” he said. “Ramsey knows your conjurings. He may feel when you cast, and even recognize the spell. He is not as familiar with me and my power.”
It was a fair point. “Very well.”
Sephira’s man cut himself and spoke the concealment spell for both of them. The conjuring trembled in the ground, and then settled over Ethan, like a cool mist on this frigid night. Concealed as they were by the same spell, Ethan and Mariz could see each other. They would be invisible to others, however, including any conjurers they encountered. They dismissed their spectral guides-Reg scowled when Ethan muttered, “Dimitto te”-and set out toward Cornhill and the western end of King Street.
So late at night, and at this end of the city, away from the mob that no doubt still crowded the lanes around the Town House, the streets were empty. Ethan and Mariz placed their feet with some care to avoid making too much noise as they walked, but for now they were in little danger of being heard. And for the time being, Ethan didn’t have to worry about being identified as Grant’s murderer.
“This soldier we seek-”
“His family name is Morrison.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“I know he’s a conjurer, and that his spectral guide was on Middle Street the day Christopher Seider was shot. Beyond that I don’t know anything for certain. But I believe Ramsey hired Grant-the man he killed tonight-because he had ties to the Sons of Liberty. And I think he wanted to have a soldier working for him as well. What better way to sow as much conflict as possible in a garrisoned city?”
“But to what end, Kaille? I did not think that Ramsey cared about politics. He hates you, and has been driven by that hatred all along. Why bother with all of this?”
“I don’t know. He may believe that I care even if he doesn’t. And no doubt he remembers that Sephira worked for importation violators last summer; he hates her as well, and may wish to pit us against each other.”
Mariz did not appear convinced. Ethan wasn’t sure that he believed all of this either. But as they neared the corner of Cornhill and King streets, another thought came to him, one that he had first voiced to Janna.
“The illusion Ramsey used looked just like him.” There were more people on the streets here, and Ethan said this in a whisper. “Or rather exactly as I remember him from last summer.”
Sephira’s man frowned at him and shrugged. “If you were to cast such a spell, would you not have it appear as you do?”
“Of course I would. But think, Mariz. He was trapped in that burning warehouse. He should have been scarred; as skilled as he is with conjurings, he couldn’t have escaped completely unscathed.”
“He is prideful. Perhaps he would not want you to see his scars.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Ethan said. “But what if there is more at work here than mere pride? What if he’s not merely scarred, but truly maimed? What if he’s using these spells against me because he can’t strike at me more directly? What if I can’t find his ship because he is no longer capable of captaining a vessel?”
“It is possible. I had not considered this, but yes, it makes sense. This would make him easier to defeat, would it not?”
“It probably would. But it will also make him more desperate, more extravagant in what he’s willing to do.”
They passed the Old Brick Church. Its bell still tolled, testimony to how far Ramsey might go in his quest for revenge. The church stood only a few paces from the Town House and the western end of King Street. Remarkably, the crowd had dispersed, or perhaps had moved elsewhere. The soldiers were no longer guarding the building.
“They must be back at the barracks,” Ethan said.
“Then this will be easier.”
According to the clock on the Town House, it was past two o’clock in the morning. Still, Ethan and Mariz continued on to Murray’s Barracks, stopping outside the entrance. The door was shut, and they couldn’t open it without giving themselves away. They heard enough voices from within, though, to know that the soldiers were not yet abed.
“What now?” Mariz asked, his voice low.
“Now we convince him to join us outside. Veni ad me,” Ethan said. Come to me.
Reg winked into view, bright russet in the gloom. He still appeared to be annoyed at having been dismissed as they made their way to the barracks.
“I didn’t want someone spotting us too soon,” Ethan said. “But now I need you to draw the soldier-conjurer outside. Do you know which man I mean?”
The ghost grinned and nodded.
“Good. Then go.”
Reg glided to the doorway and passed through the wood and into the warehouse.
“This way,” Ethan said.
He led Mariz farther up Brattle Street, past Hillier’s Street, to Wings Lane, which was deserted. They waited at that corner, watching the barracks entrance, both of them with their blades drawn. After a few moments, Reg emerged onto the street once more and turned unerringly in their direction. Halfway up Brattle Street, the ghost halted and peered back over his glowing shoulder.
A few seconds later, the door to the sugar warehouse opened and out stepped a lanky uniformed soldier, his musket in hand. He glanced up and down the street. Spotting Reg, he strode after him.
Reg glided toward Ethan and Mariz, turning the corner at Wings Lane and then passing them, so that Morrison could not see him anymore.
The soldier quickened his pace.
Ethan and Mariz retreated a short distance onto the lane. As they did, Mariz looked at Ethan and mimicked holding a musket. Then he shook his head.
Ethan understood: This confrontation promised to be far more dangerous if Morrison was armed. Before he could respond, however, Morrison reached the corner. Reg had stopped a few strides beyond Ethan and Mariz, and now stood in the middle of the lane.
Seeing him there, Morrison slowed, his weapon held at waist level, the bayonet glinting with moonlight.
Ethan was close enough to see by the moonlight that his eyes were dark, and his chin bore a white scar. The soldier crept in his direction, his gaze sweeping the narrow street.
“Who are ya?” the soldier said. “Show yourself.”
Mariz stood several feet from Ethan and Morrison had inadvertently positioned himself between them. Ethan caught Mariz’s eye and pointed at him. Sephira’s man appeared confused, but Ethan knew that he would catch on soon enough.