“Remedium!” Ethan said, practically shouting the word. “Ex cruore evocatum!” Healing, conjured from blood! Usually a healing spell required that he mark the injured body part with blood. But in this case, blood was everywhere; the air reeked of it.
The wharf beneath him pulsed with power. Uncle Reg appeared again, though he hardly even glanced at Ethan or Tanner. Instead, the wraith stood with his back to them, staring after Sephira. And as the blood disappeared from the wood and dirt, and from Tanner’s neck and shirt, the gaping wound began to close. Ethan couldn’t tell if he had acted soon enough. Tanner had lost a great deal of blood in just those few seconds.
A part of him wasn’t certain why he cared. Tanner meant nothing to him. But if Sephira wanted him dead, Ethan would do all he could to keep him alive.
At first, even after the gash had healed itself, Tanner didn’t move. But leaning close to the man’s face, Ethan felt a slight stirring of breath. He grabbed Tanner’s wrist and felt for a pulse. Also faint, but unmistakable. Ethan sat back on his heels, and took a long breath. After what seemed like years, Tanner’s eyes fluttered open.
Ethan cut himself once more and drew forth a bright light that hovered over them like a tiny sun.
“You’re a … a conjurer!” Tanner said, trying to scramble away from him, although he was too weak to go far.
“Aye, I’m a conjurer. I just saved your life with a spell.”
The man’s hand strayed to his throat, his fingers probing the raw scar left by Nigel’s blade. “Why?” he asked.
Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t make me regret it.”
With some effort, Tanner sat up. His arms trembled and his skin looked pasty. “Is she gone?”
“Aye,” Ethan said. “But you need to leave Boston. If she sees you, she’ll try to kill you again, and I might not be around to heal you.”
“But-”
“Short-that’s the man who owned those watches you stole-he wants you transported as far from these shores as possible. Failing that, he wants you dead. He made that clear when he hired me, and I’d wager every shilling I have that he told Sephira the same thing.”
“So … so you were goin’ to turn me over to the sheriff?”
Ethan made no answer. He didn’t always turn in those he was hired to pursue, and he never killed any man unless left with no choice. He had lost too many years of his life to prison and forced labor to send men away for commission of petty crimes. And he had seen too many lives wasted in battles and in the harsh conditions he had endured in his plantation prison to kill for little cause. But he always insisted, under the threat of a painful spell-induced death, that those he captured leave Boston, never to return. The last thing he needed was for word to get around the city that he didn’t punish the men he was hired to pursue. He would never be hired as a thieftaker again. He saw no reason to trust Tanner with this information.
“Aye, probably,” he finally said. “And Sheriff Greenleaf would have dealt with you harshly. But Sephira took the watches and left me to heal you, so I suppose this is your lucky day.”
Tanner’s dark eyes narrowed. “Well, then-”
“Don’t even think it,” Ethan said. “Just leave Boston on the next ship that sails. If you don’t, she’ll kill you. And if she doesn’t, I will.”
Ethan climbed to his feet, let the light fade out, and started to limp back along the wharf to the city street. He needed an ale, and it seemed he also needed to have a conversation with Diver.
“I suppose I ought to thank you for savin’ me,” Tanner called after him.
“Don’t bother,” Ethan said over his shoulder. “I didn’t do it for you.”
Chapter Two
Ethan followed Ship Street to Fish Street and continued along the edge of the North End, skirting the finer neighborhoods. He walked by warehouses and darkened storefronts, past Paul Revere’s Silver Shop and the Hancock Wharf. The moon cast his shadow, long and haloed, across locked doors and clapboard façades. The air was cool and dry, laden with the smells of brine and fish, burning wood and ships’ tar. After crossing over Mill Creek, he followed Ann Street as it turned away from the harbor and met Union.
Two men of the night watch stood at the far corner, speaking in low voices, one of them chuckling at some jest Ethan didn’t hear. There was no established constabulary in Boston, and for now at least, there were no British regulars patrolling the streets. Men of the watch were expected to guard the citizens of Boston and their property from lawbreakers. And when they failed, which they did with some frequency, one of Boston’s thieftakers-in most cases, Sephira Pryce or Ethan-was hired to recover the stolen items. The sheriff of Suffolk County, Stephen Greenleaf, bore some responsibility for keeping the peace as well, though he was but one man, with no soldiers or guards under his immediate authority.
The long and short of it was that even with several hundred British soldiers aboard ships in the waters off the city’s shores, Boston remained a lawless city. Some of the men who served the watch were honest and competent; others were not. A few worked for Sephira Pryce, and took advantage of their time on the watch by robbing empty homes, so that Sephira could return the stolen items to their rightful owners, for a substantial fee, of course.
He didn’t recognize either of these watchmen. This didn’t mean necessarily that they worked for Sephira, but he would have felt better had he known at least one of the two. He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets as he walked past them.
“It’s late to be abroad in the streets.”
Ethan halted and turned. Both watchmen had stepped forward, their expressions hard. They were young men, one tall and spear-thin, the other shorter and brawnier. Ethan guessed that they both were armed, although they had yet to pull out either pistols or knives.
“Yes, it is,” Ethan said. “I’m just on my way to the Dowsing Rod for an ale or two.” His voice remained steady, and he met the taller man’s gaze, unwilling to let them believe that he feared them.
“I’m less interested in where you’re going than in where you’ve been.”
“I’m a thieftaker,” Ethan told him. “I was down at the wharves looking for a man who robbed a client.”
The tall one continued to regard him like something a dog might drag in off the street, but Ethan could see from the easing of his stance, the slight droop of his shoulders, that this answer had satisfied him. “Find him?”
Ethan shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Well, better huntin’ next time.” The man was already turning away as he said this. The second man continued to watch Ethan, but he made no effort to stop him.
Ethan raised a hand in farewell and continued on toward the tavern, glad to get away with nothing more than a few questions. He cut through Wings Lane, a dark, narrow byway that connected Union and Hanover Streets and turned south toward Sudbury.
Before he reached the next corner, a gray and white dog bounded at him from the shadows between two shops. She ran a tight circle around him, her tongue hanging out, her tail waving wildly.
“Well met, Shelly,” Ethan said, stopping to scratch the dog behind her ears.
She licked his hand and fell in stride beside him as he continued toward the Dowser.
Even here, closer to the center of the city, the streets were mostly deserted. On most nights as clear as this one, even this late, there would have been at least a few people walking the lanes, a chaise or two rattling past. But the arrival of the king’s warships in Boston Harbor seemed to have brought a deeper chill to this autumn night.
Reaching the Dowsing Rod, Ethan gave Shelly one last scratching and a pat on the head. “Good night, Shelly,” he said, and stepped inside.
The great room of the tavern shone with candles. The warm air was tinged with the pungent bitterness of spermaceti candles, the sweet scent of pipe smoke, the musty smell of ale, and the savory aroma of yet another of Kannice Lester’s excellent fish chowders.