Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  “You recognize that color, don’t you?”

  Yes.

  Ethan had hoped for this. Reg’s eyes wouldn’t have been fooled by the daylight as his were. He would have seen the soldier’s ghost in its true form.

  “Did you see it on Middle Street? Was this the color of the ghost you saw the day Chris Seider was shot?”

  The ghost nodded.

  A part of Ethan wished that he had confronted the soldier—Morrison, another man had called him—rather than running from him, though he knew how dangerous that could have been.

  “Did he cast the spell that made Richardson fire? Or the spells that sparked the confrontation during Chris Seider’s funeral? Or even the one used against Gordon?”

  Reg didn’t answer right off. Eventually he shrugged, an apology etched in his ancient features.

  “I understand; it’s all right.”

  Considering his own question Ethan wasn’t sure he believed that Morrison could have cast them. Those other spells left no residue, and at least two of them had been made to seem like they came from Ethan. The rich color of Morrison’s magick indicated that he had some skill as a conjurer, but he had done nothing today to indicate he possessed enough power to have cast those other spells.

  Which begged a different question: If Morrison’s ghost was on Middle Street when Richardson fired into the crowd, did that mean he was working with someone else, who had cast those other spells? Was it possible that he was an associate of Nate Ramsey or even Jonathan Grant, the conjurer Ethan met at the Green Dragon? And had the soldier been on the street the previous night, when Ethan put himself between the regulars and the young men? He didn’t remember seeing Morrison there, but he had been occupied with other matters.

  Morrison might not have done anything to convince Ethan that he had power enough to cast these spells. But wasn’t it more likely that he was responsible for the spells cast in recent days, than that Nate Ramsey had returned to Boston unnoticed?

  With all of this to ponder, he left his room and again walked the length of Boston’s waterfront, from Gibbon’s Shipyard to Hudson’s Point. As before, he did not find the Muirenn among the vessels in and around Boston’s wharves. When he had finished, cold and exhausted, his bad leg screaming, he went to the Dowsing Rod, giving the barracks on Hillier’s Street a wide berth as he left the North End.

  He arrived at the tavern before most of Kannice’s regular patrons, and took a seat in the farthest corner of the great room. Kelf placed before him an ale and a bowl of fish chowder. Ethan was ravenous, and was soon working on seconds of each. But as he ate, he brooded on how little he had learned this day.

  Relieved as he was that he hadn’t found Ramsey’s ship, he wasn’t entirely certain what he ought to do next. Chances were that Morrison wouldn’t be leaving Boston any time soon. He was stuck here with his regiment, and unless he deserted, which didn’t seem likely if he was plotting to sow conflict with these spells, Ethan would know where to find him. But while Ethan wanted desperately to question the soldier, he didn’t think it wise to do so quite yet. Nor did he expect that a request made of Morrison’s commanders for more information about the soldier would yield any results. The one person who might be able to learn something of Morrison was the sheriff, but as weary as he was, Ethan could not face a conversation with Greenleaf this night. With some reluctance, he vowed silently that he would seek out the sheriff come the morning.

  The evening passed without incident. Diver and Deborah came in and sat with Ethan for a short while, but they seemed to be in the midst of a spat, and neither of them said much. Ethan was relieved when, earlier than usual, they left the tavern. He retired early as well, and did not hear Kannice when she joined him in her bed.

  By the time Ethan awoke the following morning, she was already gone from the room; he could hear her moving around downstairs. He dressed and joined her there.

  Seeing him, she came out from behind the bar and kissed him. “Good morning.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in last night.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You slept; I’m glad.” She glanced at his greatcoat, which he had carried down with him. “Where are you off to now, without any breakfast?”

  He smiled. “I need to speak with the sheriff. And after that I’ll probably search the waterfront again.”

  Concern furrowed her brow. “You’re going to make yourself sick, walking so much in this cold. And if Ramsey is here, and has been since you felt that first spell, don’t you think that you would have found his ship already?”

  “I think that I’ll find his ship when he’s ready for me to find it, and I don’t know when that’s going to be.”

  If anything this made her look more worried. “Will you be back later?”

  “Aye, I promise.”

  He left the tavern and walked once again to West Street and the stately home of Stephen Greenleaf. The sheriff was emerging from the house as Ethan arrived. Seeing him, Greenleaf scowled.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I need information about a man, a soldier with the Twenty-ninth.”

  “And what in God’s name made you think that I would be willing to help you? In case you hadn’t noticed, Kaille, I work for the Crown, just as this soldier does. I’m not going to tell you—”

  “He’s a speller.”

  Greenleaf blew out a long breath, vapor billowing in the chill morning air. “And how would you know that?”

  “His family name is Morrison. I don’t know his given name. He speaks with a burr, so I assume he’s a Scotsman. And I have cause to believe that he was on Middle Street when Christopher Seider was shot.”

  “Why do you need me? Why can’t you find out whatever it is you want to know?”

  “I’d need to speak with a commander in the army, and I don’t think there are many British captains who would wish to share with a thieftaker information about the men under their command. But it may be that the sheriff of Suffolk County can get answers to questions I cannot.”

  Greenleaf made a small, impatient gesture, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “You didn’t answer me, Kaille.”

  “I’d have thought you were used to that by now.”

  “What makes you think this man is a witch?”

  “The devil came to my room last night and told me he was.”

  “I see. So, you’re asking a boon of me, for the second time in less than a week, and once again you refuse to tell me what I wish to know. Why should I help you?”

  “Because, Sheriff, I’m trying to help you do your job, and you’re trying to have me hanged as a witch. I’m not sure the two are comparable.”

  “You’re trying to help me do my job?” Greenleaf laughed. “It seems to me you’re trying to make me do yours.”

  “That’s not—This man, Morrison, he might well be responsible not only for the Seider boy’s death but for a confrontation that nearly led to a second murder the night of the lad’s funeral. And he might be—” He broke off, uncertain of how much he ought to tell the good sheriff.

  “He might be what?”

  Ethan shook his head. “He’s a dangerous man, Sheriff. I’m sure of it.”

  “He might be what?” Greenleaf demanded again, enunciating each word.

  Ethan didn’t answer and after several moments, the sheriff turned and started away down West Street. “Good day, Kaille.”

  “He might be working with Nate Ramsey.”

  Greenleaf halted and whirled on his heel. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  The sheriff glanced up and down the lane before walking back to where Ethan stood. “I heard you speak of a ghost,” he said, his voice low. “Ramsey’s dead. You’ve said you don’t believe he is, but I’ve seen no proof otherwise and it’s been months.”

  “He’s not dead. And I believe he’s back in Boston, though as of yet I have no evidence to prove it.”

  “Of course you don’t. It’
s rather convenient for you, being able to sling Ramsey’s name around when you want to alarm me, or get me to do your bidding, or divert my attention from other things.”

  “What other things?” Ethan asked, his voice rising.

  “I don’t know. That’s for you to tell me. We can start with this Morrison fellow: What makes you think he’s a conjurer and why didn’t you mention before that you saw him on Middle Street?”

  “I heard from someone else that he was on Middle Street. I didn’t see him myself.” My spectral guide saw his spectral guide. The mere thought of saying this nearly made Ethan laugh aloud. “As for Morrison’s conjuring abilities,” he said, pressing on, “he … he did things that raised my suspicions.”

  “What things?”

  Ethan threw his arms wide. “What does it matter?”

  “I thought as much,” the sheriff said with a smirk. “You ask for my aid, but you’re so concerned with keeping your neck out of a noose that you won’t tell me what I want to know.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think there was any conjurer on Middle Street but you. I don’t think there was any conjurer at that damned funeral but you. I’d wager every coin in my pocket against every one in yours that you were responsible for those spells.”

  Ethan wanted to gainsay the man, but Greenleaf’s guess had struck too close to the truth for comfort.

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Greenleaf said, leaning closer to him. “But I won’t be your dupe, and I won’t waste my days chasing after witches and wraiths. If you truly believe that Ramsey’s back you shouldn’t be here, troubling me. You should be scouring the city.”

  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.

  “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.