Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  “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.

  “Put down your weapon,” Ethan said.

  Morrison whirled toward him and raised his weapon as if to fire. Mariz stepped behind the man, and kicked his legs out from under him. The soldier fell to the ice, the musket slipping from his grip. Ethan covered the distance between himself and the soldier in a single stride and kicked the weapon beyond Morrison’s reach.

  Still on the ground, though now sitting, Morrison grabbed for his blade. For a half second, Ethan considered casting another shatter spell. But he didn’t wish to draw Ramsey’s attention if he could help it. Instead, as Morrison pulled his knife free of the sheath on his belt, Ethan kicked him in the side. The weapon flew from the soldier’s hand, its blade clattering on the street with the ring of steel on ice.

  Gasping, the soldier nevertheless tried to get up. Ethan planted his foot on the man’s chest and shoved him down. The man grabbed Ethan’s leg with both hands.

  “Don’t try it,” Ethan said, putting more weight on Morrison so that the lad struggled to draw breath. “There are two of us, conjurers both. Even if you were to throw me off, you’d die before you could get away or cast the simplest of spells.”

  Morrison glowered. “Who are ya?” he said again, wheezi
ng the words. “You came to the barracks before. Days ago. Isn’t that right?”

  “Let go of my leg.”

  The soldier remained still, except for his eyes, which darted from side to side, perhaps seeking some clue as to where Mariz stood.

  Sephira’s man squatted beside him, grabbed a handful of Morrison’s hair, and laid the edge of his knife along the side of the soldier’s throat.

  Morrison dropped his hands to his side.

  “Show yourselves then,” he said, his voice still strained. “I’ll not treat with men I can’t look in the eye.”

  Ethan and Mariz shared a glance. Sephira’s man appeared doubtful, and gave a small shake of his head. But Ethan wanted to see if Morrison recognized him. He nodded.

  Mariz frowned, but then acquiesced with a shrug. He cut himself and said, “Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” End concealment, conjured from blood. With the pulse of the conjuring, and the appearance of Mariz’s spectral guide, Morrison grew watchful and wary. Concealment spells did not wear off instantly, and so the soldier peered in turns at Ethan and Mariz, squinting, trying to see them more clearly.

  When at last he was able to make out Ethan’s features, he could not conceal the flash of recognition in his eyes.

  “Aye,” Ethan said. “You know me, don’t you? Ramsey has seen to that.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  He was a better liar than Grant, but not by much. Ethan removed his foot from Morrison’s chest and motioned for Mariz to release him.

  “Stand up,” he said.

  Morrison eyed them both, but then climbed to his feet. He was several inches taller than both of them. Ethan could see that he was already thinking of possible routes to safety.

  “You’ve been working for someone,” Ethan said. “A conjurer. You were given five pounds initially and promised more. The person who paid you said to watch for conjurers here in town, and to leave a missive somewhere when you found one.”

  “I told you, I—”

  Ethan stopped him with a raised hand. “Don’t lie to me, lad. I’ve no time for games, and even less patience. You weren’t the only one he hired, and I’ve already learned a good deal.”

  Morrison glanced at Mariz again. Sephira’s man held his knife over his arm; it might as well have been a pistol, full-cocked and aimed at his heart.

  Morrison huffed a sigh. “What is it you want to know?” he said.

  “Let’s start with where you’re supposed to deliver your missives.”

  “The burying ground on the Common. The old one with the granary.”

  The Granary Burying Ground. It was almost funny. The last time Ethan and Ramsey fought, it was over the souls of the newly dead. They had faced each other in that cemetery. Had Ramsey found one more way to mock him?

  “Where exactly?” Ethan asked.

  “Just by the gate.”

  “Are you to meet someone, or leave the messages and go?”

  “I’m just to leave them.”

  “Did you meet someone when you were first paid?”

  “Aye. But he was no conjurer, at least not that I could tell. I think he was a sailor.”

  Maybe Ramsey still had his ship after all, and so still commanded a loyal crew.

  “Is there a signal of some sort, a way to let this person know that you’ve left word?”

  “Aye. I’m to place the message at the base of a tombstone, one near the entrance, and then I’m to cast a spell: a simple wardin’. I was told that my spells would be recognized and that someone would come an’ retrieve the message.”

  “And how were you to be paid the balance of what you’re owed?”

  Morrison shrugged. “They haven’t said yet. But they were good for the first five pounds; I expect they’ll pay me the rest.”

  “What if they don’t?” Ethan shook his head, forestalling an answer. “Allow me: You believe that though they haven’t said as much, the people you’re working for are loyalists who seek to weaken the patriot cause. You were happy to be paid, but you would do this work for nothing if it meant helping to defeat Samuel Adams and his rabble. Isn’t that right?”

  The way the soldier gawked at him one might have thought he had sprouted wings and flown in circles over the city. “How did you know that?”

  “You’re not the only conjurer Ramsey hired.”

  “You mentioned that name before. Ramsey. Who is he?”

  “He’s no loyalist; I can tell you that much. He’s a merchant captain, a conjurer, and a madman. None of what you’ve been asked to do will help your fellow soldiers or hurt Samuel Adams and his allies. Ramsey wants vengeance. That’s all he cares about.”

  “Vengeance on who?” Morrison asked.

  “On me.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Morrison said, narrowing his eyes.

  “I don’t care. You’re going to help us find him.”

  The soldier’s expression hardened. “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then every man in your regiment will learn that you’re a witch.”

  “I could do the same to you. To both of you,” he added with a quick look at Mariz.

  “You could, but it wouldn’t prevent your court-martial, would it? You don’t have to do anything you wouldn’t otherwise,” Ethan said. “You’ll come with us to the burying ground, cast your spell, and be on your way. We won’t trouble you again, and you’ll have done nothing to violate the terms of your agreement with Ramsey.”

  “What about a message? I’m supposed to leave one for him.”

  “And so you will. We’re to be your message.”

  Ethan could see that the soldier didn’t like this idea at all. He was eyeing the two of them again; Ethan thought he might be trying to determine if he could fight them off long enough to retrieve his musket.

  “I’ve had a long night, Morrison,” Ethan said. “I was on King Street when your friends opened fire. And that was far from the worst part of my evening. If you so much as glance in the direction of your weapon, my friend and I will shatter every bone in your body, heal them all, and then break them again, one by one. Through no fault of your own, you’ve been drawn into a blood feud. Ramsey wants me dead, and I’m determined to kill him if I have to. Please don’t make me hurt you, too.”

  The soldier hesitated but then nodded.

  “Shall we make our way to the burying ground?” Ethan asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “Come along then.” Ethan turned to Mariz. “Walk behind us. If he takes a step in the wrong direction, snap his neck.”

  Mariz turned to Morrison and smiled. “With pleasure.”

  “What about my knife and musket?”

  “It’s half past two in the morning. Leave them there; they’ll be waiting for you when we’re done at the burying ground.”

  The soldier didn’t seem satisfied with this response either, but he fell in beside Ethan and they began the short walk from Wings Lane to the burying ground.

  “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.