Dead Man's Reach (38 page)

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, wheezing 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

T
WENTY-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.