“Why does this man Ramsey hate you so much?” Morrison asked after some time.
“That’s a long tale,” Ethan said, unable to keep the weariness from his voice. “Long ago we found ourselves at odds, and we never managed to make peace.”
This left Morrison looking more confounded than satisfied, but he said nothing more until they reached the burying ground gate.
Once inside the grounds, the soldier led Ethan to one of the grave markers near the entrance.
“This is it,” he said. “This is where I’m to leave the missives.”
“All right then,” Ethan said. “Cast your spell. Carefully, Morrison. There’s still two of us and only one of you.”
The man reached for his knife, but of course it was no longer on his belt. Ethan drew his own and handed it to the man hilt first. Morrison took it, clearly surprised by the trust Ethan had shown him. He cut himself and muttered his warding spell. When the thrum of the conjuring had died away, he returned Ethan’s knife.
“What now?”
“Go back to your regiment, lad. You’ll have no more trouble from me.” Ethan proffered a hand, which the man gripped after a moment’s hesitation.
The soldier cast one last look at Mariz, before trudging through the snow back to the street.
“I am not sure it was wise to let him go,” Mariz said, watching the soldier.
“Perhaps not. But I’ve seen too many men die tonight. I’m not willing to watch Ramsey kill him, too.”
Mariz didn’t argue. “So now we wait for another man to come.”
“Aye,” Ethan said. “We won’t be so gentle with this next one.”
Chapter Twenty-one
They left the burying ground and found a vantage point near the corner of School Street from which they could see the cemetery gate. Lifting his collar against a light, cold wind off the harbor, Ethan leaned against the side of a building and closed his eyes. He longed for sleep.
“Are you certain that Ramsey will send someone tonight?” Mariz asked. “It is very late.”
Ethan didn’t bother opening his eyes. “He’ll send someone. He killed Grant tonight because he’s afraid I’m getting too close to finding him. He’ll want to know what Morrison has learned.”
“And when he figures out that Morrison has deceived him, what will he do? Did you really spare Morrison, or have you sent him to his death?”
At that, Ethan opened his eyes. “I can’t control Ramsey. All I can do is find him and kill him before he does more harm.”
“You were reluctant to kill him the last time we fought him.”
“Not anymore,” Ethan said.
Mariz nodded his approval.
Sooner even than Ethan had expected, he heard the sound of footsteps, boots crunching the frozen snow. He spotted the sailor, who was coming not from the South End waterfront, as Ethan had expected, but from the north. He might have come from the North End, or perhaps even from New Boston, as the West End was also known. The man followed what in the summer months was barely more than a dirt path from Beacon Street around the back of the burying ground to the gate Ethan and Mariz had been watching. He carried a torch and, after entering the cemetery, walked directly to the tomb Morrison had indicated.
Ethan and Mariz made their way back to the cemetery gate as well, making as little noise as possible.
The sailor had stopped at the gravesite and appeared to be searching the ground. Seeing nothing, he lowered his torch so that it would cast more light on the grave marker.
“Have you lost something?” Ethan asked.
The man spun, nearly dropping his torch. “No, I-” He fell silent, his eyes going wide as he recognized Ethan and Mariz. This was one of the crewmen Ramsey had with him the previous summer, when he desecrated graves in all three of Boston’s oldest burying grounds, including this one.
He drew his knife and lowered himself into a crouch, the blade in one hand, the torch in the other. Mariz had his knife at his arm, ready to cut himself for a conjuring. Ethan held his blade ready as well, but he didn’t wish to conjure. Doing so would only draw Ramsey’s attention.
“Those won’t do you much good against two conjurers.”
“I’ll take my chances,” the man said.
Ethan had to admire his courage, though he knew it would do the sailor no good. A dark and eerie calm had settled over him. Never before had he done what he contemplated now. But never before had he been so desperate.
“It needn’t come to a fight. I want to see your captain; that’s all. I know he’s been eager to see me as well. Tell me where he is and you’re free to go.”
“I ain’ tellin’ you nothin’.”
“Do you carry a pistol, Mariz?” Ethan asked quietly.
The conjurer glanced his way. “Yes, I do.”
Ethan held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
The sailor had started to back away. Ethan feared that he would flee.
“Now!” he said, his voice carrying across the burying ground.
Mariz reached into his coat pocket, removed the flintlock, and handed it to Ethan.
Ethan wasted no time. He raised the weapon, took careful aim, and fired. The report of the pistol was deafening and seemed to echo in every corner of the city. The soldier collapsed, wailing, clutching his bloodied thigh. He had dropped his knife and torch-the latter sputtered and went out when it hit the snow.
Ethan walked to where the man lay and pocketed the dropped blade.
“Now,” he said, kneeling next to the man. “Let’s begin with something easy, shall we? What’s your name?”
“Go to hell,” the sailor said through clenched teeth.
“You’re unarmed, you’re hurt, you’re cold and tired. I can heal you. I’d be glad to. Or I can kill you, very, very slowly.”
“Kaille-”
“Quiet, Mariz.” To the sailor he said again, “Tell me your name.”
“Go ahead and kill me.”
“You believe that I won’t. Perhaps Ramsey has convinced you that I’m weak, that even when circumstance calls for ruthlessness, I’m incapable of it. Not long ago, there might have been some truth to that. But after what your captain has done to me these past few days, I assure you, I am willing to do whatever I have to find him.” He flipped Mariz’s pistol in the air and caught it by the barrel. And still holding the sailor’s gaze, he pounded the butt of the flintlock on the bullet wound in the sailor’s leg.
The man roared his pain, tears springing from his eyes.
“This is going to get much, much worse if you don’t start answering my questions.”
When the sailor merely glared back at him, Ethan said, “You don’t wish to tell me your name. That’s fine. Tell me where Ramsey is.”
Silence.
He hammered at the wound a second time, drawing a howl from the sailor.
“Ramsey has been using my power to cast spells. Did you know that? Because of him, I bear some blame for the death of a young boy.” He hit the man again. “For the fracturing of a soldier’s skull.” He struck another blow. “For a tavern brawl that almost killed the woman I love.” Another blow. “And for tonight’s shooting, which killed at least three men and cost my dearest friend his arm.” He hit the soldier four more times.
By now the soldier was writhing in agony, and whimpering like a beaten cur. Tiny spots of blood dotted the snow near his leg, and the butt of Mariz’s pistol was sticky and red.
“What would you propose I do?” Ethan asked Ramsey’s man, his voice sounding disturbingly calm to his own ears. When the sailor didn’t answer, he said, “I’m at a loss as well. I can’t allow this to go on. And with you here, I have the opportunity to ascertain where Ramsey can be found. So you see, I have no choice in the matter. I bear you no malice, but I also have no particular reason to spare you. Ramsey hasn’t cared who he hurts or kills in seeking to avenge himself on me. Why should I be any different?”
A voice in his head-Kannice’s-answered his own question: Because you are. But he ignored this, his eyes fixed on the sailor.