Ethan started back toward the South End, staying close to the waterfront so that he could mark the progress of the troops. For so large a force, they vacated Long Wharf rapidly. By the time Ethan had crossed back into the South End and was nearing King Street, the last of the regulars were marching through the city. They carried muskets fixed with bayonets, and they marched to the steady rhythm of several drums and the high sweet notes of a corps of fife players. Young men bore flags at the van, and behind the soldiers horses pulled the artillery pieces.
Men, women, and children lined the streets to watch the procession. Most were grim-faced, although a few men near the Town House made their approval obvious, nodding ostentatiously, emboldened in their support of the Crown by the arrival of the troops. But what struck Ethan was the silence of the crowd. Few people spoke; he heard no cheers or jeers. Still, many in the throng followed the men. Ethan did the same, driven by his curiosity.
The regulars marched to Boston Common, and while a group broke off from the main column and headed north toward Treamount Street, most entered the Common and there continued to march, seeming to perform for the benefit of those citizens who had accompanied them. Watching this, Ethan couldn’t help but think of Kannice. He wondered where all of these men would be quartered. Governor Bernard and the Massachusetts Council had been arguing the point for weeks, the governor threatening to seize control of publick houses and inns-like the Dowsing Rod-the council claiming that the regulars ought to be billeted at Castle William. So far there had been no resolution, and many feared that lodging the men among Boston’s citizens would lead inevitably to bloodshed. Ethan didn’t fear this might happen; he knew with cold certainty that it would.
He continued to watch the regulars from a distance, aware that he should have been working but unable to ignore what was happening to his city. For so long he had counted himself a loyalist. To the extent that he subscribed to any political persuasion, he had been a Tory. The arrival of these men, though, changed everything. It was one thing to contemplate an occupation. Seeing it begin was another matter entirely. Yes, this was a colony, a holding of the British Empire. But these soldiers didn’t belong here. That was the thought that went through his mind over and over. This isn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening. They should not be doing this in Boston. Samuel Adams would have been amused, or perhaps encouraged. Kannice might have been proud of him.
These thoughts consumed him so that he gave little thought to the tingle of power he felt in the soles of his feet, or to the lad who had appeared beside him. That is, until the boy spoke.
“You’re Kaille.”
It was an odd voice, and Ethan knew why as soon as he looked at the boy. He was perhaps ten, with golden hair and ragged clothes, and eyes that glowed like those of Uncle Reg.
Ethan looked around, trying to spot the conjurer who had cast this illusion spell.
“You’re Kaille, right?”
This wasn’t the first time a conjurer had used the image of a child to communicate with him. Memories of those earlier encounters, with a cruel, waiflike creature named Anna, still haunted him.
“Yes, I’m Kaille.”
“Good. Come to Darby’s Wharf.”
“Why?”
“Now, Kaille. We have to talk.”
“Who-?”
The boy vanished before Ethan could finish the sentence. There were few people anywhere near him, and none seemed to have noticed the sudden appearance and disappearance of the lad.
“Damn,” he muttered. Then, “Veni ad me.” Come to me.
Uncle Reg appeared, his stance alert. Ethan half expected the ghost to reach for his sword.
“Is my warding still in place?” Ethan asked.
Reg nodded.
“Good. Come with me.”
Ethan left the Common and strode back toward the waterfront with Reg beside him. Darby’s Wharf was close by, which made Ethan wonder if this conjurer might not have been powerful enough to send an illusion spell as far as Ethan himself had sent his illusion earlier in the day, when he alerted Sephira to the attack on Mariz.
When Ethan reached the wharf he found it deserted. Warehouses cast elongated shadows across the pier, chilling the salty air. Small swells from the harbor sloshed against the sides of the wharf, and the ropes tying a single moored ship to a pair of wooden bollards creaked faintly as the vessel shifted.
He slipped his knife from its sheath and stepped onto the wharf, sweeping his gaze over shadowed corners.
A radiant figure stood by a warehouse wall, perhaps twenty yards away. Glancing around one last time, Ethan started toward the image.
It was a man, tall, brawny, thick in the middle. He had a roguish look-a handsome face with a crooked nose and square chin. His hair might have been red, his face ruddy. It was hard to say with the image glowing so. But even though the figure’s eyes gleamed brightly, Ethan could see that one appeared darker in color than the other. The figure glowed as white as the moon, rather than with the true color of Gant’s power. It seemed the thief wished to conceal that from Ethan.
“Gant,” Ethan said as he neared the image. He looked around again, trying to find the conjurer.
“Kaille,” the image said.
“Why are we talking like this?” Ethan asked. “Show yourself.”
The illusion shook its head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been looking for me. Why?”
“Who told you I’ve been looking for you?”
“Why?” Gant asked again.
“You were supposed to be aboard the Graystone. You deserted. A good many people are looking for you. It’s not just me.”
“Aye, well, we both know what would have happened if I’d been on the Graystone.”
“Do we?” Ethan asked. “It seems to me that if you had been aboard the ship nothing would have happened.”
“What?” The illusion stood stock-still for a few seconds, as if Gant had fallen asleep on his feet. Just as abruptly, it jerked into motion again. “Are you saying you think I killed all those men?”
“Why don’t you tell me who you think did it? Maybe we can figure this out together.”
“Stay away from me, Kaille,” the image said, the voice hardening. “Stop looking for me. Stop asking people about me.”
“Like I said, I’m not the only one. Do you think you can keep Sephira Pryce from finding you? The British army doesn’t like it when soldiers desert. Do you think you can warn them away, too?”
As he spoke, Ethan reached into his pocket for the pouch of mullein, hoping that Gant might not notice. But apparently Gant could see through the eyes of his illusion just as Ethan could through his.
“Stop what you’re doing!” the image said.
Ethan froze, but he didn’t remove his hand from his pocket. He had the pouch in hand, and thought that he could conjure without pulling out individual leaves. He might use more mullein than he intended, but he could buy additional leaves from Janna.
“Let me see your hands!” Gant said.
Ethan had had enough of this. He needed to know where Gant was, and so began to whisper a finding spell under his breath. But he only managed to get out the first word or two when he heard a footfall behind him. Directly behind him.
Ethan spun, desperately trying to yank his hand from his pocket. He caught a glimpse of Gant’s face-one blue eye, one green eye. He didn’t see more except for the mammoth fist that connected high on his cheek. The blow seemed to lift Ethan off of his feet. Tiny points of white light erupted behind his eyes. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back. Although not for long.
Hands grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, hauled him off the ground. Gant dug a fist into Ethan’s gut, doubling him over and stealing his breath. Even as Ethan retched, yet another blow to his jaw sent him sprawling onto his back once more.