Dead Man's Reach (30 page)

“I'm good at what I do. I've been thieftaking for ten years now, and I haven't been killed even once.”

A choked laugh escaped her, but then she sobered once more. “You can't stay young forever.”

“I'm not sure I'm young now.”

She smiled, offering no reply, her silence a pointed acquiescence.

Ethan laughed. “You could argue a little.”

“Why bother when you're making my argument for me?”

Ethan lifted Kannice's hand to his lips. “You know that even if I decide to go into the tavern business, I can't simply stop thieftaking right now. Ramsey is out there, and he won't forgo his vengeance because I happen to change professions.”

“I understand.”

“And if I start living here, working here, spending every minute with you, you might find that you don't care for me as much as you thought.”

“I've considered the possibility,” Kannice said, eyes dancing.

“And…?”

“I'm willing to take my chances.”

He nodded, looked at the fire.

“Are you truly considering this?” she asked.

“Aye. If the alternative is losing you, then I'll give up thieftaking.”

She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

“You're surprised.”

“Very,” she said. “I didn't think…” She shook her head. “It doesn't matter. I'm grateful to you.”

“Didn't think what?”

She dropped his hand and stood. “How about that breakfast?”

Ethan caught hold of her again. “You didn't think what, Kannice?”

“I wasn't…” Tears welled in her eyes again. “I didn't think you loved me that much,” she whispered.

Ethan felt his heart constrict. He stood and took her in his arms. Her sobs shook them both.

“I love you more than I can say,” he said, breathing the words into her scented hair. “And the fact that you doubted it … I'm sorry; it's my fault.”

He held her for what seemed a long time. Her sobs subsided slowly, and at last she pulled away and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“You needn't apologize.”

Before they could say more, the tavern door opened and Kelf walked in. Seeing them, he halted, his face turning even redder than the cold had made it.

“G'morning, Kannice. Ethan, it's good to see that you're … alive.”

“Good day, Kelf,” Ethan said.

Kannice grinned. “I think it's time I made breakfast.” She gave Ethan a quick kiss and hurried back to the kitchen.

Ethan remained by the fire, watching as Kelf took off his coat and stepped behind the bar. “I suppose I owe you an apology, too.”

Kelf shrugged. “It might be helpful if you told her when you plan on stayin' away and when you plan on bein' here. There's only so many ways for a fella to say, ‘No, I don't think he's dead,' before it starts to sound insincere.”

Ethan chuckled. “Fair enough.”

He joined Kannice in the kitchen. She had eggs frying in a pan along with several slabs of bacon.

“I should go,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, with equal measures of surprise and disappointment.

“Because the more people who come to the Dowser, the more dangerous it is for me to be here.” He glanced toward the great room to make certain that that barkeep wasn't close enough to hear. When he went on, it was in a softer voice. “If Ramsey were to cast another of his spells right now, and Kelf were to attack me, I'd have no choice but to use conjurings against him. I don't want to risk hurting him or you.”

“I don't understand this, Ethan. What is it Ramsey is doing? And how are you so sure it's him?”

“I've seen the residue of his conjurings—his color. It's all over me. He's found some way to turn my spellmaking to his purposes, and he's making people attack each other, and attack me. You've heard of the fights over at Gray's Rope Works?”

“Aye. A soldier had his skull fractured there yesterday.”

“Damn,” Ethan said. “I saw it happen. I made it happen, or rather Ramsey did using my power.”

“But that's only one—”

“I was the cause of a brawl on Long Wharf, two men attacked me in the Crow's Nest, and I'm more convinced than ever that I'm to blame for the death of Christopher Seider.”

“Even if this is true, Ramsey's to blame, not you.”

Janna had told him the same thing. “You're right. But still, staying here is too great a risk.”

“When was the last time you ate?” she asked, in a tone he knew all too well.

“Fine. I'll leave after I eat.”

He and Kannice ate at the bar as Kelf worked. Kannice offered to feed the barkeep as well, but he assured her that he had eaten. He seemed intent on giving the two of them as much privacy as possible.

Once Ethan had finished eating and had helped Kannice clean up, he put on his coat and gloves, and retrieved his hat.

“You'll be in your room?” Kannice asked.

“Aye.”

“And then what?”

“I don't know. I have to find a way to protect myself so that I can search for Ramsey without being the cause of another brawl.”
Or another death.

Her brow had furrowed again. Ethan thought he knew why.

“I can't leave Boston forever,” he said. “And when I return, he'll still be here, waiting for me. I have to end it; best I do it now.”

“I'm sure you're right,” she said, sounding anything but sure.

He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead, hoping to smooth away the creases.

“I don't know when I'll be back, but I'll try to get word to you when I can.”

“Yes, all right.”

They kissed, and he left. Out on the street again, he thrust his hands in his pockets, lowered his head, and walked as swiftly as his bad leg would allow. He hurried past clusters of soldiers and wended his way through crowds of workers, dreading the touch of a spell or the appearance of Uncle Reg. But he made it back to his room above Henry's shop without incident.

After rekindling his fire, he reached for Janna's books once more and began to read all that he could about warding spells. He soon discovered that the wardings listed in Janna's books were far more sophisticated than the basic warding spell on which he usually relied. According to these texts, there were countless variations of wardings, each of which worked best against certain kinds of spells. If a speller knew that a specific conjuring would be used against him, he could ward himself against that spell. Most of the time, Ethan had no idea what spell his latest foe would use against him, but in this case, with Ramsey back and using borrowed conjurings against him, he knew exactly what he wanted to guard against.

Unfortunately, none of the wardings listed in the books were specific to this sort of conjuring. Eventually, however, as night fell, he began to recognize patterns in the spells these books described, and he wondered if he might create his own warding. The herbs Janna had recommended to him were mentioned again and again in the volumes, convincing Ethan that whatever warding he created should use all three of them.

Holding three leaves of each herb in the palm of his hand, Ethan said, “
Protege meam magiam contra violationem, ex verbasco et marrubio et betonica evocatum.
” Protect my magick from violation, conjured from mullein, horehound, and betony.

The spell rang like the harp of God in his walls and floor. Reg stood in front of Ethan, staring avidly at the books and pouches of leaves.

“That was powerful,” Ethan said to him. “Don't you agree?”

The ghost nodded.

He pulled out three more leaves from each pouch and held them the same way. “
Protege meam magiam contra violationem, ex his herbis evocatum.
” Protect my magick from violation, conjured from these herbs.

This second conjuring was easier and quicker to say, but when it hummed in the wood around him, it felt far less puissant than had the first version he tried.

“What do you think?” Ethan asked the ghost.

Reg held up one finger.
The first.

“Aye. That's what I think.”

“Teaching yourself wardings. Such diligence.”

Ethan jumped up and grabbed for his knife, knocking Janna's books and at least one of the pouches to the floor. He didn't care.

Nate Ramsey stood in his room, arms crossed, a smug smile on his face.

“Easy, Ethan,” he said. “If it was really me, you'd be dead already.”

Ethan didn't answer, nor did he relax his grip on his blade. But he eyed the figure before him more closely.

It was, he realized, an illusion, created with a conjuring. Ramsey looked just as he had the first time Ethan met him—tall, lean, with a long face and a dark, unruly beard. His eyes were palest blue, and his teeth, bared in a feral grin, were yellow and crooked. He wore a silk shirt, tan breeches, and a bloodred coat.

Ethan knew that this couldn't be what Ramsey looked like now, for he was unmarked, unscarred. And that was impossible. Ramsey was a powerful conjurer—perhaps the most powerful Ethan had encountered in all his years—but during their final battle the previous summer, he had been trapped in a deadly fire, buried beneath flaming rubble. Such an inferno would have killed most men, and there had been times in the intervening months when Ethan had thought—hoped—that the captain must be dead. Even the most skilled conjurer would emerge from such an ordeal with some scars.

“How do I look?” Ramsey's illusion asked, in a voice that was thinner than Ethan remembered, but only a little.

“I was thinking that you look well.”

“I did that for your benefit. Thanks to you I'm actually not as handsome as I used to be.”

“You started the fire, Ramsey, not I.”

The figure shook its head. “Arguing with me already. And here I came to see you and to offer you a gift.”

“What gift could you offer to me?”

“The lives of people you love, of course. Think, Kaille. This is going to be a terribly boring conversation if you can't follow along.”

“Where are you, Ramsey? This isn't like you—cowering somewhere in hiding, attacking me from afar. Tell me where I can find you and I'll come now. We can settle this today, without anyone else getting hurt.”

“I don't think so. I've had a long time to think about our next encounter. I have it all planned. Letting you find me too soon would ruin everything.” The figure looked down at the books and the herbs. “I am impressed, though. You must be learning quite a lot.”

“Then at least you can tell me where you learned to do borrowed spells?”

A smile split the illusion's face. “I was most proud when I mastered those conjurings. I'd been hearing about them since I was a child, but never knew how they worked until now. Imagine how differently our past battles might have gone had I known then how to cast them.”

Ethan suppressed a shudder. “Where, Ramsey?”

The illusion's expression turned stony. “I'm not going to tell you that. Don't mistake me for a fool.”

“Thanks to you, a boy is dead. He was all of eleven years old, and in your desperate attempt to avenge yourself on me, you killed him. You might not have pulled the trigger, but his blood is on your hands.”

“Let's talk about my gifts for you,” the illusion said, as if it hadn't heard.

“Because you don't wish to speak of Christopher Seider?”

“Because I choose what we will discuss!” Ramsey's voice echoed in the small room. “Because if I wanted to I could kill them all, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me! Because I'm giving you…” The figure faltered, and when next it spoke, it was in a calmer, softer tone. “A gift.”

“Fine, Ramsey. What ‘gift' are you offering?”

The smile returned. “A hint, so that you can be prepared when the time comes.”

“Prepared for what?”

“Your choice.”

“What?”

Ramsey's image merely grinned at him, his pale eyes wide, like those of a child desperate to share a secret.

“You're mad,” Ethan said.

“You know better. You understand how dangerous it would be to dismiss me as nothing more than a lunatic.”

Ethan had no desire to engage in this pointless battle of words, but he hoped that if he kept Ramsey talking long enough the captain might reveal something of his whereabouts or his intentions.

“Have you used a concealment spell on your ship? Is that why I can't find it?”

“You can't find it—can't find me—because I am not yet ready to be found. You don't seem to understand, Ethan: I control everything. I control you, your magic, your friends. Think of what I've accomplished thus far. You're afraid to go to that tavern your woman owns. You're afraid to walk through the city. You're afraid to do the job you were hired to do. You think I'm mad, and yet here you sit, alone in this small, shabby room, reading books and trying to teach yourself wardings that are destined to fail.” The illusion leaned forward. “You can call me mad,” it said in a confidential tone, “but I'm winning. Again.”

“Perhaps it's time I summoned the spirit of your father, as I did the last time we confronted each other in this room. It angered you then. How would you feel about it now?”

“By all means, make the attempt. Do you honestly believe I failed to anticipate the threat?”

Ethan tried to conceal his disappointment, but knew that he hadn't succeeded. The illusion laughed.

“Was that the only weapon you had? I thought it might be.”

The image of Ramsey looked gleeful. If Ethan could have killed him in that moment, he would have done so gladly.

“I think I'll be leaving now. I have much to do and I'm afraid you need to spend a good deal more time with those books of yours. So far, they don't seem to be doing you much good. Remember. Make your choice.”