Addled, unable to see for the white light, unable to catch his breath, he heard Gant take a step toward him again. Forcing his eyes open he saw a blade glint in the fading daylight.
“You should have listened,” Gant said.
He tasted blood and cast the first spell that came to mind.
“Ignis ex cruore evocatus.” Fire, conjured from blood.
Ethan couldn’t direct the spell with any precision-he felt as though the entire wharf were spinning-but he did manage to set Gant’s sleeve ablaze.
Gant swore, slapped at the flames with an open hand, his knife clattering on the ground.
Blood still flowed from the cuts in his mouth, and Ethan cast again. “Pugnus ex cruore evocatus!” Fist, conjured from blood.
Gant staggered the way he would have if Ethan had landed a physical blow on the side of his head. By now, the brute had extinguished the flames, but rather than casting a spell of his own, or renewing his assault, he fled. He didn’t even bother to retrieve his blade.
Ethan made no attempt to chase him. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, trying to control the sensation that he was spinning. When at last he opened his eyes again, Uncle Reg stood over him, grinning.
“You find this amusing, don’t you?”
The ghost nodded and started to fade from view.
“No, you’re staying with me,” Ethan said.
Reg frowned, but grew brighter once more.
Ethan staggered to his feet and gingerly touched his fingers to his jaw and cheekbone. Gant’s blows hadn’t broken anything, but if left untended his bruises would look terrible come morning.
He walked back along the wharf to the street, weaving a bit at first, but soon finding his stride. Reg watched him, but Ethan ignored the ghost, pondering what Gant had just done. Why would a conjurer use an illusion spell to call him to the wharf, use another to speak with him, but not use his spellmaking powers to attack? Gant must have known as well as Ethan did that he was strong enough to beat Ethan to within an inch of his life without resorting to conjuring. But he hadn’t even warded himself against Ethan’s attack spells. It made no sense.
Still turning these questions over in his mind, Ethan returned to his room. Upon reaching it, he used two mullein leaves to place a warding spell on his door. Then he lay down and took a long breath.
“Dimitto te,” he murmured. I release you. He felt a small pulse of power and knew that Reg was gone.
Some time later, he awoke with a start. His room was completely dark, but beyond that he had no idea of the time. He sat up with some effort, and allowed a wave of dizziness to pass. His bruises felt swollen and fevered and the inside of his mouth felt like he had been chewing on glass.
Without bothering to light a candle or look in a mirror, he cut himself, marked his injuries with the welling blood, and cast a healing spell. The pulse of power still thrummed in the walls when the throbbing pain in his jaw began to abate. He couldn’t keep himself from bruising a little, but he could keep the injuries from bothering him as much as they might if he did nothing.
When he had finished, he opened his door and stood still, listening. Strains of laughter reached him from the south. Closer by, two men were singing an off-key version of “Vain Is Ev’ry Fond Endeavor,” sounding forlorn and very drunk. Ethan assumed that it was late, but not overly so. He left the room and walked to the Dowser, his stomach rumbling.
As he neared Treamount Street, he saw in the distance a cluster of regulars, and heard shouted arguments and raucous laughter coming from a crowd of men who had gathered not far from the soldiers. Rather than pass too close to what appeared to be a dangerous encounter between troops and the citizenry, he circled around through Cornhill and along Brattle Street and approached Kannice’s tavern from the north.
He had expected to find the mood in the Dowser subdued. Most of those who enjoyed Kannice’s ales and chowders also tended to share her political leanings. This should have been a sad day for them all. But upon opening the tavern door, Ethan was buffeted by sounds of celebration. The great room was packed with men and more than a couple of women, all of whom were laughing uproariously and singing “Jolly Mortals Fill Your Glasses.” As Ethan stood in the doorway, Tom Langer, one of Kannice’s usual crowd, climbed onto a table and straightened with some great effort. He raised his tankard, spilling ale on his shoes, and shouted, “God bless Elisha Brown!”
“Elisha Brown!” came the answering cry, followed by more cheers and renewed singing.
Kannice stepped out from behind the bar and put her fists on her hips. “Tom, get down from there before you fall and dent my floor with your skull!” But even she was grinning.
Tom looked at her sheepishly and climbed back down.
Kannice turned and spotted Ethan in the doorway. She canted her head to the side, grimacing and shaking her head. She walked over to him and reached up to his swollen jaw, wincing.
“What have you done now?” she asked.
Ethan shrugged. “I found a man I’d been looking for.”
“Well, aren’t you the clever one,” she said archly. She smiled to soften the words. “Come on, I’ll get you some food and a maybe a raw steak for that face.”
“The food will be enough, thank you,” Ethan said, letting her lead him to the bar. “What’s all this about Elisha Brown?”
Kannice’s eyes danced. “He and a bunch of others are living in the Manufactory on Treamount. When the British commander ordered him and his friends to give up the building for the regulars, he refused. Barricaded himself inside. He’s in there still.”
“And the regulars?”
She waved a hand. “Oh, some are on the Common, others are in Faneuil Hall and the Town House. A few are back down at the wharves.” Her grin returned. “But they’re not in the Manufactory.”
“That’s a dangerous game to be playing with the British army,” Ethan said.
She sobered. “I know,” she said, so that only he could hear. “But it’s given people here in town something to celebrate.”
Kelf placed a bowl of chowder and an ale in front of Ethan. “You’ve looked better,” the big man said.
“My thanks, Kelf.”
“Who was this man you found?” Kannice asked as Kelf moved down the bar to serve some ales.
“Simon Gant, the one I mentioned to you last night.”
“What did he want with you?”
“He wants me to stop looking for him,” Ethan said. “But I still think he might have murdered every man on the Graystone, and he very nearly killed the conjurer Sephira has working for her now.”
She frowned. “Wait. You mean he’s a speller, and he beat you with his fists?”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“Frightening is more like it,” Kannice said. “If he can kill every man on that ship, what’s to keep him from killing you any time he pleases?”
Ethan had no answer.
Chapter Thirteen
Kannice’s question occupied his thoughts throughout the night. He slept poorly again, his dreams darkened once more by what he assumed were imagined bursts of power that seemed to reverberate through every bone in his body.
He woke to the first gray light of dawn, feeling more exhausted than he had when he lay down the night before, but knowing that he wouldn’t get back to sleep. The five days Hutchinson had given him were slipping away; he needed to find Simon Gant. After lying awake for several moments, he rolled out of bed, dressed silently, and managed to leave the room without waking Kannice.
His face still hurt from the beating Gant had given him and the skin over his bruises felt tight and tender. The muscles in his back and legs and arms ached. Hard though it was to credit, he knew that he would have felt even worse if he hadn’t cast his healing spell the night before. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was getting too old for thieftaking. Worse, he wondered how he would make a living if ever he decided that in fact he was.