Ethan quickened his pace, passing the church once more and turning onto Chambers Street. There he slowed, searching the overgrown fields on either side of the lane.
When at last he spotted the man, he couldn’t have been more surprised. He had expected an ambush of some sort. But the conjurer Ethan found wasn’t waiting for him, skulking in the grasses, a bloodied knife held ready. Far from it.
Ethan recognized Mariz at once, though the spectacles were missing from his face. He lay sprawled by the edge of the lane in a thick patch of grass and weeds, his legs bent, one arm twisted beneath him at an awkward angle, the other limp on his chest. His wheaten hair and wispy mustache and beard shone in the sun. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose, and another stained the corner of his mouth.
Ethan hurried to the man’s side and leaned over him, resting his hand on Mariz’s wrist. He felt a pulse, but it was weak and too fast. Mariz’s lips and skin had a bluish tinge and the man’s breath came in shallow gasps. Ethan caught a glimpse of something glinting in the grass nearby-Mariz’s glasses. He picked them up and slipped them into his pocket. Raising his head, Ethan looked around. He was all alone on the lane; there wasn’t another person in sight. He didn’t think he could carry Mariz all the way to Sephira’s home, and even if he could, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to move the man so roughly.
After weighing his options, he tore some grass from the ground and cast an illusion spell. Such spells were usually among the easiest to conjure; they were called elemental because they didn’t require blood or mullein, or even grass. They could be conjured from water or fire. But this illusion had to appear to others on the far side of the city, and Ethan needed to speak through it, something he had learned to do only a few years before.
“Videre et audire per mea imagine ex gramine evocatum,” he said. Sight and hearing, through my illusion, conjured from grass.
He felt the conjuring in the ground, watched as the grass in his hand disappeared. Then he closed his eyes.
Imagining the inside of Sephira’s house was easy. Locating her, if she was even there, was more difficult.
The illusion-an image of himself-materialized in Sephira’s dining room, the part of her house Ethan knew best. Seeing the chamber through the illusion’s eyes, Ethan realized that no one was there.
“Sephira!” he made the image say. “Sephira Pryce!”
Through the illusion, Ethan heard footsteps behind him. He made the image turn and saw Nigel step into the room.
“Kaille!” he said, pulling out a knife. “What the hell are you…?” He trailed off, the angry sneer on his horselike face sagging into puzzlement as he saw how insubstantial this image of Ethan looked. “What the hell?” he said again, breathing the words this time. He took a step back from the illusion.
“I’m doing it with a spell, Nigel,” Ethan said through the image. “It’s an illusion, an image of myself. I’m in New Boston. Get Sephira for me. It’s important.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“Please,” Ethan said. “You know I wouldn’t do this if I thought I had any choice.”
Yellow-hair’s expression soured. He didn’t lower the knife, but after another moment he nodded and strode from the room.
Ethan waited in the grass on Chambers Street, his eyes closed against the sunlight. This conjuring was harder than a simple illusion spell, but not so taxing that he couldn’t maintain the image of himself.
After a few minutes, Nigel returned to the dining room leading Sephira. Nap and Gordon were with them.
“What is this, Ethan?” Sephira asked, her hands on her hips. “You think that you can use your witchcraft to-?”
“Mariz is hurt.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Mariz is hurt. He’s here in New Boston, on Chambers Street between Cambridge and Green. He’s unconscious, and I’m afraid that if I try to move him on my own I’ll make matters worse. You need to send a carriage.”
Sephira considered him for what seemed an eternity.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you trying to help him?”
“Because I’m beginning to understand that there’s someone out here who’s more dangerous than Mariz. You’re wasting time, Sephira, and I’m not sure how long he has.”
Still she hesitated. The mistrust between them ran deep, and had for too long. It had become a habit, as hard to give up as liquor. At last she turned to Nigel and the others and said simply, “Go.” Yellow-hair sheathed his knife and led Nap and Gordon from the room.
Facing the image of Ethan again, Sephira asked, “Can you heal him?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try.”
“Do you know who did this to him?”
“I think we both know, don’t we?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She managed to say it without averting her eyes, without blushing, without any change in her expression or the tone of her voice. Ethan supposed that there was something admirable in the ease with which she could lie, even as one of her men lay dying in the street. He wasn’t above admitting that there were times when he wished he could do something equally cold-blooded. But it served to remind him of the obvious: that despite his willingness to help Mariz and thus help her, he and she remained mortal enemies.
“Fine, Sephira. I’ll see you soon.”
“Ethan!” she said, before he could release the illusion spell. She stared at his image, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
He let the spell end, opening his eyes and squinting against the glare of the midday sun.
Mariz hadn’t moved, but he still appeared to be breathing, though with difficulty. Ethan leaned over the man and felt his limbs, his touch light, gentle. None of the bones seemed to be broken. Looking more closely at the one arm that had been pinned beneath Mariz, Ethan saw that while the bone remained whole, the elbow had been dislocated. He had seen similar injuries on the plantation in Barbados and knew how to mend it without resorting to a conjuring. He gripped the man’s upper arm firmly in one hand and the lower arm in the other, thinking that Mariz was lucky to be unconscious for this. With a sharp motion he snapped the joint back into its normal position. Feeling the bones grind against one another, he winced in sympathy.
When Ethan was done, he sat back on his heels and exhaled heavily. After several seconds, he turned his attention to the conjurer’s ribs, which were fractured in a number of places.
Before he could try a healing spell, however, Ethan heard voices approaching. Several children and two women were walking toward him, dressed in their church finery. Ethan was still bent low in the grass, which may have been why they hadn’t seen him yet. He cut himself and whispered, “Velamentum nobis ambobus, ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, both of us, conjured from blood.
In the last hour, he had cast enough spells to draw the attention of every conjurer in Boston. Gant could have shown up at any moment, and he would have seen Uncle Reg’s glowing form, even if he couldn’t spot Ethan. But the women and children felt and saw nothing. They strolled past without so much as a glance toward Ethan and Spectacles, the children laughing and running, the women chatting amiably.
Ethan saw that others were heading in his direction as well. Sabbath services were over. The road would be more crowded now. But Mariz continued to labor with every breath. While the next group of churchgoers was still some distance off, Ethan cut himself and gently rubbed blood onto Mariz’s side. He then spoke another spell in the softest of whispers, his bloodied hands covering the spot where Mariz’s ribs had broken.
“Remedium ex cruore evocatum.” Healing, conjured from blood.
This was more complicated spellmaking, and harder to maintain. He held his hands steady, and allowed the power of his conjuring to course through his fingers into Mariz’s bones. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he didn’t pause, knowing that healing spells worked best when the power flowed uninterrupted into flesh and bone.