D. Jackson - Dead Man's reach

Ethan walked to the door, eyeing the soldiers as he approached.

“Good evening, Sheriff,” one of the men said. He studied Ethan, a faint sneer on his angular face. “This another prisoner?”

“Sadly, no,” the sheriff said. “We need to see Richardson.”

The man produced a key, unlocked the prison door, and pulled it open with a creak of the great iron hinges.

Greenleaf surveyed the street. A few stragglers still lingered near the corner of Treamount and Queen Streets. “Lock the door again once we’re inside. Don’t open it for anyone but me. Do you understand?”

“Aye, sir.”

Greenleaf waved Ethan inside. As soon as Ethan crossed the threshold, the stink hit him, calling up unwelcome memories.

Not so long ago, again around the time of the occupation, Greenleaf had led Ethan into the gaol as his prisoner, and had left him there, chained to a wall in a fetid cell.

It seemed the sheriff was thinking of this as well. “Have you missed the place?” he asked, watching Ethan.

“Hardly.”

But by now his recollections had carried him past his brief incarceration in this gaol, to darker memories of his imprisonment after the Ruby Blade mutiny: rancid food, the vermin-infested pile of straw on which he slept, backbreaking labor beneath a scorching tropical sun, and overseers who reveled in abusing and beating Ethan and his fellow prisoners. Even now, years removed from that living hell, Ethan couldn’t think of these things without breaking out in a cold sweat. He had come to the gaol voluntarily-he had all but begged the sheriff to bring him here. And still his legs trembled so violently that he could barely stand.

“Are you all right?” Greenleaf asked, sounding more impatient than concerned.

Ethan nodded, swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

“You’re sweating.”

“You may recall that I have … an aversion to prisons.”

The sheriff scowled his disapproval. “This way,” he said, stepping past Ethan. He led him down a narrow corridor and halted before the third cell on the left.

Ethan joined him and peered into the cell through a small barred window in the door. Richardson sat on the stone floor, his back against the rough wall. His face was a mess: bruised, swollen, caked with dried blood. His clothes were filthy, torn almost to rags, and stained with blood as well. And still Ethan knew that he had been fortunate to survive this day.

“Who the hell are you?” The words sounded thick, muddled; his lips were split and it appeared that he had lost at least one tooth in the melee.

“I was on Middle Street today,” Ethan said. “I’d like a word.”

“What is this, Sheriff? Are you going to let him finish me off?”

“If I wanted to let someone finish you, I could make a fair bit of coin,” Greenleaf said. “They’d line up all the way from Queen Street to Long Wharf and back again, and they’d pay me well to have five minutes alone with you.” He grinned. “You’re a bit short on admirers these days, Richardson.”

The customs man looked away.

“No, Kaille isn’t here to kill you. He wishes only…” The sheriff glanced at Ethan. “He came to talk.”

“Kaille,” Richardson repeated, eyeing Ethan again. “Lillie’s man?”

Ethan bristled at the description. “Aye. Mister Lillie hired me. You and I spoke this morning, when you were trying to tear down the signs outside his shop.”

“I remember now. If you had done your job, those signs never would have been there, and none of this would have happened.”

“I seem to recall warning you to get off the street.”

The man turned from him once more. “Go away, Kaille.”

Greenleaf unlocked the door and motioned for Ethan to enter. Ethan stepped into the cell, expecting that the sheriff would close the door behind him. Instead, Greenleaf followed him inside.

“I told you that I need to see him alone,” Ethan said.

“I know what you told me, but I never agreed to all of it.” He leaned closer to Ethan, and said in a whisper, “We’re going to settle this once and for all, Kaille. I know what you are, and tonight, at last, I’ll have my proof.”

“I don’t want either of you in here!” Richardson said, glaring up at them. “Can’t you leave me in peace?”

The sheriff scowled. “Shut your mouth, Richardson!” He faced Ethan again, and flashed a smiled. “Go on then, Kaille. I promise you won’t swing tonight, or even tomorrow. It could be years before I decide to rid this city of you, but that will be my choice to make.”

Richardson regarded them both, obviously perplexed by what the sheriff had said. For his part, Ethan was damned if he was going to allow Greenleaf to watch him conjure. Fortunately, as on several occasions in the past, he was helped by the sheriff’s ignorance of spellmaking.

He had been planning to put Richardson to sleep with a conjuring before attempting any other magick. Directing the spell at two men was really no more difficult than directing it at one.

He didn’t move, and he kept his gaze locked on that of the sheriff. But drawing upon the mullein he still carried in his coat pocket, he recited the incantation to himself. Dormite ambo ex verbasco evocatum. Slumber, both of them, conjured from mullein.

The conjuring sang like a harp string, vibrating in the stone walls, floor, and ceiling of the cell. Reg appeared, bright as a newly risen moon in the dim, inconstant light of the torches, but Ethan watched the sheriff. Before long, the man staggered, his eyelids drooping.

“Wha-?”

As he started to fall, Ethan caught him and eased him down to the floor, propping his back against the nearest wall.

“I believe you’ve been working too hard, Sheriff,” he muttered.

Greenleaf snored softly.

Richardson had toppled onto his side. Ethan righted him and leaned him against a wall as well. He drew his blade and cut his arm. As blood welled from the wound, he traced a line of it across Richardson’s forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and over his chin.

“ Revela omnias magias ex cruore evocatas, ” he whispered. Reveal all magicks, conjured from blood.

This spell rumbled in the stone as well, and Ethan saw his own russet power flicker across Richardson’s body: the residue of the sleep spell he had cast. But his conjuring revealed no other evidence of spells. None.

“The conjuring revealed my sleep spell,” Ethan said to Reg. “So I know it worked.”

Reg frowned and nodded.

Ethan cut himself again and rubbed blood on the man in the same pattern. “ Revela originem magiae ex cruore evocatam. ” Reveal source of magic, conjured from blood.

This conjuring yielded much the same result, showing evidence of Ethan’s spell, but no others.

“Is it possible that the spell we felt on Middle Street wasn’t directed at Richardson?” Ethan asked.

Reg shrugged.

Ethan considered once more the tragic sequence of events from the morning. The hum of that distant spell had preceded by mere seconds the appearance of Richardson with his musket. He didn’t fire at first, though he aimed the weapon at the mob. Seconds later, he aimed again and pulled the trigger. As Ethan thought about this, he realized that he had seen Richardson pull the trigger twice. It wasn’t that he didn’t try to shoot the first time he took aim; rather, it seemed that the musket misfired.

Of course it was possible that Richardson had every intention of firing his weapon, and that whatever spell was cast had nothing at all to do with Christopher Seider’s death. Ethan knew enough of the customs man to think the worst of him. But the coincidence was too striking to ignore, particularly in the wake of Gordon’s attack on Will Pryor.