“My thanks, Janna,” he said instead, already crossing to the door. “I’ll come back soon, and tell you everything I can about the conjurings.”
“You do that,” she said.
Back on the street once more, Ethan half walked, half ran to the waterfront. He felt safer now that he had a pouch full of mullein, and as he hurried through the streets, he considered casting a warding spell, just as a precaution. Ramsey would feel it, though, and Ethan couldn’t be sure that his conjuring would be effective. He decided not to try.
The closer he got to the wharves, the heavier the scent of brine in the air, and the louder the cries of circling gulls. For the first time in several days, Ethan thought that he might be on the verge of helping the families of the King’s Chapel congregation.
Until he felt the first pulse of power tremble in the cobblestone street. This first conjuring was followed an instant later by two more in quick succession. Ethan bolted for the wharf. A pistol shot rang out across the waterfront. He heard shouting.
When he reached the dock, he found a pitched battle under way. In the shadow of the Muirenn, Sephira and her men fought hand-to-hand against Ramsey’s crew. Sephira and her toughs were outnumbered nearly two to one, but Ethan could tell from a single glance that hers were the more skilled fighters. Already a few of Ramsey’s men had fallen back, all of them bleeding from what appeared to be knife wounds, several of them needing support from their fellow sailors.
Ramsey stood on the deck of his ship, one hand gripping the rail, the other a blade. Blood flowed from a fresh cut on his forearm. Mariz stood apart from the fighting, also bleeding, also with his knife at the ready. Sephira fought with the grace and lethal efficiency Ethan remembered from past encounters with her. As he watched, she dispatched one of her foes with a vicious arcing kick that caught the hapless sailor square on the jaw. She leaped toward the other man fighting her, but he fell back. Seeing this, she rushed to join Nap, who was being harried by three men.
Ethan didn’t know what to do. He had paused at the top of the wharf, but he ran forward now, shouting for Sephira to stop fighting. No one heeded him, though Ramsey looked his way, his face white with rage.
Ethan called Sephira’s name again.
“Get out of here, Ethan!” she answered, even as she slashed at another sailor with her knife. Blood blossomed from the man’s side, just above his waist. He staggered, backpedaled several steps. “This doesn’t concern you!”
“It does! You’re doing more damage than you know! If you could have waited a few hours, Ramsey might have been gone! Perhaps none of this would have been necessary!”
“I don’t want him gone! I want him dead!”
“You can’t kill him!”
She flashed a cruel, brilliant smile. “Watch me!”
“There are souls at stake, Sephira!”
She fought on, ignoring him. Ethan should have known that she would be beyond reason; she lived for this sort of combat.
“Ramsey!” Ethan said, spinning to face the captain. But whatever plea he might have made died on his lips. Sephira’s assault had enraged the captain, and worse, it appeared to have convinced him that Ethan’s proposal a short while before had been a ruse.
“I didn’t know she would do this!” Ethan hollered.
Ramsey’s expression didn’t change.
One of Ramsey’s crew broke off from another fight and confronted Ethan, a knife in one hand and a loop of rope in the other. Reluctantly, Ethan dropped into a fighting crouch and pulled his blade free. The man rushed him, his assault awkward and obvious. Ethan evaded him with ease and swiped at the man’s blade arm with his knife.
He missed, and the sailor lashed out with the rope, nearly snaring Ethan’s blade hand.
The sailor lunged for him a second time. Ethan parried with his knife and kicked out, catching the man in the gut. He fell back with a grunt, but kept his feet. Ethan closed the distance between them with one quick stride. He feinted with his knife and landed a punch with his left hand. Blood flowed from the sailor’s nose.
Pressing his advantage, Ethan hacked at the man with his knife. It was a haphazard attack; Ethan knew it immediately. The sailor eluded him and captured Ethan’s wrist in the rope. He gave the loop a hard twist, trapping Ethan’s arm. And he drew back his knife, as to plunge it into Ethan’s chest.
“Incide ex cruore evocatum!” Slash, conjured from blood!
Perhaps it was desperation, the urgency with which he conjured. Perhaps Ramsey was occupied with the battle unfolding before him, and so gave little thought to disrupting his spells. Whatever the reason, Ethan’s conjuring did what he needed it to. Power thrummed, the blood on the sailor’s face vanished, and the rope holding Ethan’s blade arm fell away, all in the span of a single heartbeat. Ethan thrust out his knife to block the sailor’s blow; his blade buried itself to the hilt in the man’s forearm. The sailor howled; his knife flew from his fingers and clattered across the dirt fill of the wharf. Ethan yanked his knife free as the man dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm to his belly.
Ethan turned away from him. Not much had changed. A few more of Ramsey’s men had fallen back, and one of Sephira’s men had retreated several paces, a bloody wound on his shoulder.
“Ramsey, call back your men!”
“I will not!”
Ethan looked to Sephira. “End this now! Please, before it’s too late!”
“I intend to.”
“That’s not what I mean, Sephira!”
She opened her mouth to answer. But as she did, another sailor loomed behind her, a knife raised to strike. Ethan had no idea where he had come from; he seemed to appear from nowhere, like one of Ramsey’s shades.
Ethan didn’t even have time to shout a warning. The knife started to descend in a blurred, silvery arc.
A shot rang out, deafening, its report echoing among the warehouses and ships. The sailor’s arm stopped; his knife slipped from his fingers. His eyes widened, and rolled back in his head. Sephira turned. A bloodstain spread over the sailor’s side under his blade arm. He coughed once, blood spurting from his mouth, and fell forward. If Sephira hadn’t stepped out of the way, he would have fallen onto her. As it was, his blood splattered her shirt and waistcoat.
Ethan could hear the man’s wet, labored breathing—slow, desperate gasps, each weaker than the last.
Nigel stood a short distance away, his pistol held steady, a cloud of gray smoke surrounding him like a halo. He appeared to be as surprised as anyone by what he had done. He looked at his weapon, before lifting his gaze to Sephira. The other fights had stopped. Everyone stared at the fallen sailor.
“No!”
There was something tortured and unearthly in that cry, as if it had been torn from Ramsey’s throat by a taloned hand.
A conjuring pulsed; the blood on Ramsey’s arm disappeared. And an instant later Nigel’s body flew backward as if smote by some giant unseen fist. He rolled several times across the wharf, finally coming to rest in a crumpled, dusty heap.
“Nigel!” Even as the name crossed Sephira’s lips she lunged for another sailor, her blade flashing again, her lovely features contorted with anguish and hatred.
Ethan cut his arm and cast a fire spell, so that a wall of flame erupted just in front of her. She staggered back, as did the man she had been fighting. Ramsey’s men still battled with the rest of Sephira’s toughs, and the captain had cut his arm once more. Ethan feared that he would kill the rest of them with his next conjuring.
He didn’t dare take the time to pull out the pouch of mullein; he merely cast his spell, hoping he would be quicker than Ramsey. “Provoco te, Nathaniel Ramsey, ex regno mortuorum, ex verbasco evocatum.” I summon thee, Nathaniel Ramsey, from the realm of the dead, conjured from mullein.
The ghost of the old captain appeared beside him, pale green in the glare of day. Ramsey screamed Ethan’s name, but he didn’t cast a spell. Ethan didn’t know if the captain feared for his father’s soul, or
didn’t wish for the spirit to see what he might do next. Really, he didn’t care. He had hoped to keep Ramsey from doing more damage, and he had accomplished that much. For the moment.
“This ends now!” Ethan said, pitching his voice to carry. “Sephira, Ramsey, call back your men.”
“Stay out of this, Ethan!”
He had never heard Sephira’s voice sound like this—forlorn, enraged, quaking with emotion.
He faced her, shaking his head. “I can’t. Call them back, or I’ll use a spell to stop them.”
She glared at him, her eyes red-rimmed. But after a moment she shouted for Nap, Gordon, and the others to fall back. Ramsey called to his men as well, although his venomous gaze never left Ethan and the ghost of his father.
Sephira turned on her heel and hurried to where Nigel lay. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees by his side. Nap, Mariz, Afton, Gordon, and Sephira’s other men joined her a few seconds after, as did Ethan, who was trailed by Uncle Reg and the ghost of Nathaniel Ramsey.
Nigel lay utterly still, his eyes open, sightless, fixed on the hazy blue sky. A strand of yellow hair fell across his face, and a trickle of blood ran from his nose.
“Nigel,” Sephira said, a whisper this time.
She stood, took a step toward Ramsey’s ship. Ethan planted himself in front of her and took hold of both her arms. There was murder in her eyes, and something else Ethan had never thought to see: a welling of tears.
“Out of my way,” she said, her voice thick.
Ethan didn’t release her. “No. He’ll kill you, Sephira. He’ll kill every one of your men.”
“No, I’m going to kill him.” She said this softly, but then bellowed at Ramsey, “I’m going to kill you, you conjuring bastard!”
“By all means try, Miss Pryce,” Ramsey said, his voice taut.
Other members of Ramsey’s crew had gathered around the man shot by Nigel. One of them called to their captain that the man was dead. The sailors turned as one to glare at Sephira and the others, including Ethan.
They were moments away from renewing their battle, and who knew how many more men would die before they were done?
“What’s going on here?”
Ethan knew that voice. Looking past Sephira, he saw Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf stride onto the wharf with half a dozen armed regulars in tow. He and the sheriff had never liked each other, mostly, in Ethan’s estimation, because Greenleaf was determined to see Ethan hanged as a witch, or at the very least thrown in gaol for whatever offense the sheriff could concoct. But this one time, Ethan could not have been more pleased to see him.
He was an imposing man: tall, broad-shouldered, with a prominent hook nose and pale, piercing eyes. Though Ethan had often questioned his principles and on occasion his competence as well, he never doubted that Greenleaf was a formidable presence. Upon seeing him, Ramsey’s crew retreated toward the Muirenn, pausing to help their wounded shipmates. They left the dead man, stepping around the blood that had pooled by the body.
“Kaille,” Greenleaf said. “I should have known that I’d find you in the middle of his nonsense. What is—?” He stopped, his mouth dropping open at the sight of Nathaniel Ramsey’s ghost. “What in God’s name—?”
“It’s the shade of a dead man, Sheriff,” Ethan said. “Haven’t you heard? Boston is full of them right now.”
Greenleaf took a step back. “You did this! You and your damned witchery! Make it go away!”
“I can’t,” Ethan said, leaving it for the sheriff to work out what he meant.
“Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know. Heaven? Hell? You tell me.”
“You’re playing games now.” His gaze darted toward Ramsey’s ship. “What is this all about? Who are those men?”
“That’s the crew of the Muirenn.”
Greenleaf narrowed his eyes. “Why is that name so familiar?”
“The ship belongs to Nate Ramsey.”
“Ramsey!” he said. “Ramsey’s back?”
“Aye. This is the shade of his father.”
“He killed my man, Sheriff,” Sephira said. “I want him arrested.”
“And who killed that man there?” Greenleaf asked, pointing at the fallen sailor, even as he cast another nervous glance at the ghost.
“Nigel did,” Ethan said.
“I see. And what was your role in all of this?”
“He had nothing to do with any of it,” Sephira said, before Ethan could answer. “He tried to warn me away from here.”
Ethan couldn’t have been more shocked if she had declared her love for him.
Greenleaf seemed to be thinking along similar lines. His tone when next he spoke was a good deal more subdued. “Very well. Miss Pryce, it might be best if you leave for now. I give you my word that justice will be done. Kaille can tell me what happened, and if I have questions, I’ll call on you at your home.”
Sephira nodded but cast a dark, lingering look at the ship. “I won’t leave Nigel here,” she said. “My men will carry him up to my carriage.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sheriff said.
Ethan and sheriff backed away as Sephira’s toughs arranged themselves around Nigel’s corpse and lifted the yellow-haired man. Mariz, who was far smaller than the others, kept out of their way. He caught Ethan’s eye, his expression grim.
Ethan thought he knew what the conjurer was thinking, for the thought was in his mind, too. If Ethan had allowed Mariz to kill Ramsey the night before, Nigel would still be alive, as would Ramsey’s sailor. Mariz said nothing, of course. Even if he was cruel enough to give voice to the words, he wouldn’t have wanted Sephira to know that he had helped Ethan fight off Ramsey.
“How long has Ramsey been back?” Greenleaf asked, as he and Ethan watched them carry Nigel’s body back up to Flounder Lane.
“It’s been several days now.”
“And you didn’t think it important to inform me? The last time the fiend set foot in my city, two men died. Men of means.” He glanced Ethan’s way. “Men you were hired to protect.”
“I remember.” Ethan tried to keep his voice level, though at that moment he needed no reminders of Ramsey’s past crimes, or of his own repeated failures to keep the captain from killing.
“Are you working with him?”
“No.” The denial crossed Ethan’s lips before he could even consider the question. He wasn’t working with Ramsey to any nefarious end, as Greenleaf’s question was meant to imply. But he had come to Tileston’s Wharf intending to help Ramsey bring his father back from the realm of the dead. It had been a devil’s bargain, an idea shaped by fear and wishful thinking. And more, he knew that if Ramsey had been an ordinary criminal, one who had committed murders during their last encounter and had desecrated more than two dozen graves in the past week, he wouldn’t have given a thought to helping him. Was he willing to aid Ramsey simply to keep the captain from doing more harm, or was he also helping him because they were both conjurers? No doubt Greenleaf would believe the latter.
The sheriff watched him, seeming to read Ethan’s thoughts. “You say no, but there’s doubt in your eyes. What have you done, Kaille?”
“I’ve done nothing. If anything, I’ve done too little.” He related to the sheriff much of what had happened in recent days: the grave robberies, his confrontations with Ramsey, his encounters with the many shades. And, with some reluctance, he also shared with Greenleaf his belief that Ramsey was making himself more powerful and at the same time denying other conjurers access to their power. He knew that the sheriff would take this as proof that he himself could conjure, though he took great care to admit no such thing. He said nothing about Mariz, or about his battle with Ramsey the previous night.
“Why did Caner hire you? Why wouldn’t he have come to me first? Is it that he knows what you are, and therefore assumed that you would be able to commune with whatever demons and shades Ramsey unleashed?”
“I believe it was Mister Pell who encouraged
the rector to seek my help. Pell is a friend and he has faith in my skills as a thieftaker, as well as in my discretion.”
“I see,” Greenleaf said, sounding smug. “So your friend thought he would throw a little coin your way.”
Ethan bristled. “I refused to let them pay me, Sheriff. I’m conducting this inquiry at my own expense.”
Greenleaf seemed disappointed by this. “Well, what brought you here today? And why were Miss Pryce and her men here?”
“I came hoping I could convince Ramsey to leave Boston. He is engaged in one pursuit which is both legal and harmless to the rest of us, and I told him I would help him with that if he would set sail, never to return. But when I reached the wharf, Sephira and the others were already here, and they were fighting with Ramsey’s crew. Sephira is protecting merchants who refuse to abide by the non-importation agreement, and Ramsey has been harassing those merchants. I believe Sephira hoped to impress upon him the dangers of pitting himself against her.”
“I’ve heard of incidents at several warehouses. Miss Pryce has been working for non-compliant merchants?”
“Aye, although I doubt she wants that known too widely.”
“And Ramsey has been working with your friends, the Sons of Liberty.”
“They’re hardly my friends.”
“You’ve worked with Adams in the past,” Greenleaf said. “I know you have.”
Arguing with the man was pointless. “I don’t believe Ramsey has been working with anyone. He has his own aims, and he cares for nothing else.”
The sheriff regarded Ethan with manifest mistrust. At last he said, “So Miss Pryce came here to stop him. And instead, Nigel was killed.”
Ethan took a long breath. Nigel is dead. “Aye.”
“How did he die?”
“I believe Ramsey used a spell against him.”
Greenleaf scowled. “You believe … Damn you, Kaille! You know he did! Why do you protect him?”
“I’m not protecting him. But anytime I speak to you of conjurers, you assume that I’m conspiring with them and you accuse me of being a witch. And I will not swing for Ramsey’s crimes!”
A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 27