Dead Man's Reach (19 page)

He lifted her chin with a finger, making her look him in the eye, and he kissed her softly on the lips. “First of all, Sephira Pryce, while beautiful, is the cruelest, most wicked, least trustworthy, most self-affected person I have ever met. And second, her beauty, while undeniable, is nothing next to yours.”

Kannice smiled. “Now that was much better. You should have started with that.”

“All right. Ask me again.”

She laughed once more. “That's not—”

“Ask me again.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you think Sephira Pryce is beautiful?”

“Sephira Pryce,” he said, scratching his chin. “I'm not sure I know who that is. Oh, of course. You're referring to that mean old sow who lives on Summer Street. I suppose she might be attractive to some—mostly the blind and the infirm.”

“Leave,” Kannice said, a thread of laughter lingering in her voice. She pushed him toward the door.

“But I haven't gotten to the part where she's not as lovely as you.”

“I don't care. Go away.”

“I'll be back later.”

“I'll have moved to Newport.”

It was his turn to laugh. She followed him to the door so that she could unbolt the lock. He stepped out into the bright daylight, but then turned back to her. “Lock the door.”

“Kelf will be here soon.”

“And when he arrives you can unlock it.”

“My lock is not going to stop Nate Ramsey.”

She was right, of course, though he didn't care to be reminded of this.

“Humor me,” he said.

There was a note of indulgence in her voice as she said, “All right.”

He struck out southward along Sudbury Street, which soon became Treamount. The lanes were more crowded this day, and the snow had been trampled down further, making walking far easier than it had been even the night before. Carriages and chaises steered past him, the hoofbeats of their horses muffled, the turning of their wheels on the packed snow as quiet as the gliding of sleigh runners.

The sky was a deep azure and cloudless. An eagle circled on splayed wings high overhead, white and chestnut against the blue. Lower, gulls soared in great flocks, their cries sounding thin and mournful.

It was a sparkling morn, brighter than any Boston had seen in recent weeks. Yet those Ethan encountered in the streets seemed uncommonly solemn. Ethan wondered how long it would be before the pall from yesterday's funeral lifted.

As Ethan walked along the edge of the Common, he considered what he might say to Sephira. Notwithstanding what he had told Kannice, he wasn't yet ready to share with the Empress of the South End his fear that Ramsey had returned. He knew nothing for certain; he was not entirely convinced that his suspicions were based on anything more than his lingering dread of another confrontation with the captain. There was another conjurer in the city; he knew that now. Though he could not yet shake the conviction that Ramsey was responsible for all that had happened in the past several days, the evidence he had gathered thus far—his own fruitless search of the waterfront, Uncle Reg's assurances, the fact that he had yet to see Ramsey's aqua power on any of the men affected by the spells—pointed him in a different direction.

More to the point, Sephira hated Ramsey with a passion that surpassed Ethan's own, and with good reason. The previous summer, during a pitched battle between Ramsey's crew and her toughs, Ramsey killed Nigel Billings, the yellow-haired giant of a man who had been Sephira's most trusted lieutenant. If Ethan so much as suggested that Ramsey might be back, she would tear the city apart searching for him, with potentially tragic results for herself, her men, and any innocents who chanced to get in her way.

But without mentioning Ramsey, Ethan didn't know how he might convince Sephira to allow Mariz to help him. She did not approve of their friendship, and she would be reluctant to do anything that might deepen it. Though he racked his brain, trying to come up with ideas, he still had not thought of anything by the time he reached her home.

Sephira's mansion stood at the south end of Summer Street, near the Old South Meeting House and across the lane from d'Acosta's Pasture, an expanse of grazing land that was usually filled with lowing cows and flocks of crows.

The cobblestone path leading from the street to Sephira's house had been cleared, but otherwise the snow blanketing her yard remained pristine, making her impressive white marble home appear even more stately than usual. Ethan approached the front door. Most days Sephira had at least one of her toughs posted outside on the portico, but not this morning. He rapped once with the brass lion's-head knocker.

A moment later the door swung open, revealing Gordon, who looked as huge and ugly as usual. The brute frowned at the sight of Ethan, his ears turning red.

“What do you want?”

Ethan considered a gibe—something about the nap Gordon had taken that night in Will Pryor's room, and how Sephira might have been working him too hard. But he had come to ask a boon of the Empress of the South End. Angering one of her men would not help his cause.

“I need to speak with Sephira,” he said. “And with Mariz as well. Please.”

Apparently, Gordon had expected mockery; Ethan's courtesy deepened his frown.

“Wait here.”

He shut the door before Ethan could say more. Ethan stepped off the portico back into the sunshine of the path. He stamped his feet to get the snow off his boots and breeches.

The door opened again and Gordon waved him inside.

Ethan entered the house, and waited while Gordon closed the door again.

“Your knife,” the tough said, holding out a meaty hand. “And those plants you like to carry around.”

Ethan smirked. “Do you mean the mullein?”

“Sure, whatever you call it.”

He pulled the blade from the sheath on his belt, flipped it over, and handed it to Gordon hilt-first. Then he dug in his coat pocket for the pouch of mullein and gave that to the man, too.

“That all of it?” Gordon asked. At Ethan's nod, he said, “In that case, she's in the dinin' room.”

“My thanks.”

He had been Sephira's guest enough times to know his way around the ground floor of the mansion. He walked through the grand common room, to the dining room. Sephira sat at the end of a long table of dark polished wood. She looked as lovely as always, in a black waistcoat and white silk shirt. Her hair was down, and a large purple gem shone at her throat.

Nap, dark and lean, and Mariz, a blade already in hand and his sleeves pushed up, both stood by the entrance to the chamber. Afton stood behind Sephira, his massive arms folded over his chest.

“How nice to see you, Ethan,” Sephira said, hardly sparing him a glance as she perused a newspaper: the
Boston
Evening-Post
, the city's most prominent Tory publication.

“Good day, Sephira.”

“To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Having failed to come up with any viable falsehoods, Ethan opted for a version of the truth.

“I've come seeking your help. And more to the point, help from Mariz.”

The conjurer frowned, his spectacles catching the light from the nearest of the glazed windows.

Sephira looked up from her paper, her expression no warmer than the air outside. “Help with what?” she demanded, biting off each word.

“In the past several days, I've sensed spells that I can't explain, and for which I can find no residue of power, nothing at all that would let me determine who cast them. I don't believe that Mariz is responsible for these spells, but I do think that he can help me find the person who is.”

Sephira turned her attention back to the newspaper. “Why should I care that another witch is troubling you. It sounds as though I should offer this person a job, or at least a reward.”

“I can understand why you feel that way. But these spells could affect you as well. In fact, one of them already has.”

She put the down paper once more. “What are you talking about?”

“Five nights ago, when Gordon here nearly killed Will Pryor.”

Gordon twisted his mouth to the side like a little boy accused of stealing.

“It's happened again?” Sephira asked.

“Aye. Not exactly the same thing, of course; the circumstances have been different. But several times over the past few days I've felt these conjurings, and each one of them has led directly to violence.”

“And what exactly do you believe Mariz can do?”

“To be perfectly honest, I don't know. I need to speak with another conjurer, someone who understands spellmaking. This is a puzzle, Sephira, the like of which I've rarely encountered. I need help figuring it out.”

“Why must it be Mariz? Why not go to that mad old woman who lives on the Neck? Windcatcher. Why not ask her?”

“I intend to,” Ethan said. “But surely you can see the value in speaking to more than one person.”

“All right, ask him what you will.” Her smile was as thin as smoke.

“I'd prefer to speak of this in private.”

“I don't care what you'd prefer,” Sephira said, firing the words back at him.

“I came here as a courtesy to you, Sephira. I knew that you wouldn't be pleased by my request, but I thought it proper that I ask rather than seek out Mariz's advice without your knowledge. I can just as easily leave now, and approach him another time. Would you prefer that?”

If Sephira could conjure, she would have turned him into a human torch. She glanced at Mariz before turning her glare back to Ethan. “Five minutes,” she said, her voice so low that at first Ethan wasn't sure he had heard. “You can speak outside on the portico.”

“Thank you, Sephira.”

Ethan left them there, knowing that Mariz would follow eventually, but that Sephira would wish to speak with him first.

He let himself out of the house, and stepped to the edge of the portico to stare out across the snowy pasture.

After a few minutes, he heard the door behind him open and close, and the scrape of a boot on marble.

“You should not have come,” Mariz said. “Showing such courtesy to the
senhora
may seem prudent, but in fact it diminishes her trust in me. Each time we speak in confidence, my relationship with her and the others suffers. I have told you this before, and yet—”

“My ghost says that the last spell came from me.”

He faced Mariz, who gazed back at him, blinking in the brilliant daylight.

“I wasn't able to attempt a
revela potestatem
spell—there were too many people around me. And even if I had, I think we both know that it would have shown nothing at all. But as soon as the spell was cast, my spectral guide appeared, as he did the night Gordon beat Pryor.”

Mariz started to argue, but Ethan cut him off with a raised hand.

“That is what happened, Mariz. You saw him; we both did. At the time, we couldn't know for certain, but after all that's happened since, I'm convinced it was my ghost who appeared in Pryor's room. Last night, when I asked him where the conjuring had come from, he pointed at me. I hadn't cut myself; none of my mullein was missing. But somehow, I cast the spell.”

“What did it do, this conjuring you cast without knowing?”

“It started a row between a group of British soldiers and some of the young men who attended Christopher Seider's funeral. As it happens, I felt a spell that day, too. I was on Middle Street when Richardson shot the lad, and a short while before he pulled the trigger, someone cast a spell.”

“‘Someone cast,'” Mariz repeated. “So this conjuring did not come from you.”

“My guide didn't know where it came from. I believe that whoever is doing this is getting stronger and with each day is better able to use me as a conduit for his power.”

“Was anyone hurt last night?”

Ethan shook his head. “No. But a second spell—one that also came from me—made one of the soldiers attack a friend of mine. I had to resort to a sleep spell to keep him from killing the man.” He closed his eyes for a few seconds and took a long, steadying breath, trying to quell the panic rising in his chest. This was how he had felt throughout that week during the summer, as Ramsey unleashed horrors upon the city. He opened his eyes and asked Mariz, “Have you ever heard of a conjurer casting in this way?”

“I have not.”

Ethan had expected as much.

“I believe I know what you are thinking, Kaille, for I am thinking it as well: you believe that Ramsey has returned and is responsible for these spells.”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“You should have told the
senhora
. She would have been more willing to let us speak.”

“I was afraid she would immediately start hunting for him.”

“Would that not be of help to you?”

“If Sephira and Ramsey go to war, innocent people will die. I won't shy away from a fight; if Ramsey is back, I'll kill him. He's left me no choice. But I would rather not endanger half of Boston if I can help it.”

“He may not leave you much choice in that regard either.”

Mariz was right.

The door opened and Nap joined them on the portico. “Sephira wants you inside, Mariz.” He looked Ethan's way, but went back into the house without another word.

“I'm sorry if I've made your relationship with Sephira more difficult,” Ethan said, once Nap had closed the door again.

The conjurer shrugged. “I understand now why you came. It could not be helped.”

Ethan descended the steps to the cobblestone path.

“I sensed a finding spell this morning,” Mariz called to him, making him stop. “Was that yours?”

“Aye. I should have known that Ramsey couldn't be located so easily, but I tried it anyway. I've also searched the waterfront for his ship, and found nothing. I did find another conjurer in the city, someone I don't know.”