yard for hours. He might even have to come back a second day and a third before he managed to speak with the man. He wasn’t sure he could risk spending that much time in the area. How many more fights might he cause? How many more men would be wounded?
He entered the room and made his way back to where Fleming reclined on one of the cots. Ethan had almost reached him when another spell growled like distant thunder. He faltered in midstride. None of the soldiers seemed to have sensed the conjuring—there were no spellers here. But they had noticed him, and silence had enveloped the room.
“Who are you?” asked one of the men playing cards with Jimmy Fleming.
Chapter
FOURTEEN
The soldiers regarded him the way a pack of street curs might an unfamiliar dog. Trapped under their hard glares, Ethan wasn’t sure whether to proceed and interview Fleming as he had planned, or offer some excuse and hope that he could escape the barracks without getting himself killed. He expected that one of the soldiers who had led him here would mention him to Fleming, perhaps simply to ask what Ethan had wanted. If Fleming was in fact the thief who had cracked Charles Paxton’s house, that might be enough to make him desert and flee the city. Or at the very least try to sell the goods he had stolen. Ethan’s inquiry might well end in failure because of what he did in the next few seconds. And that was possibly the best outcome for which he could hope.
“I was hoping to have a word with Private Fleming,” Ethan said, flashing a smile that was as bright and disarming as he could manage under the circumstances. This would be, he decided, like trying to take honey from a bees’ nest. The warding he cast in the Crow’s Nest was still protecting him. This new spell had done nothing to rile the men. If Ethan could avoid provoking them, he might escape without a fight.
“Not until you answer my question,” said the man who had spoken. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ethan. I’m the brother of a girl he’s been spending time with.”
Most of the men turned to look at Jimmy. Only Louisa’s beau continued to gape at Ethan.
“She doesn’t have a brother,” he said.
Ethan raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“What have you been at, Jimmy?” asked another of the men. The others smirked; a few of them laughed.
“Is Jimmy in some sort of trouble?” the first soldier asked of Ethan.
“Not really,” Ethan said, keeping his tone light. “She could do a lot worse than finding a soldier. But my Da wanted me to check on whoever it was she’s spending her time with.”
“She said your Da knew all about me!” Jimmy’s gaze flicked from one of his comrades to the next. “I swear she did!”
“And so he does,” Ethan said, his heart pounding. “But only from her. Can a father be blamed for wanting his son to take care of his little girl? Surely the rest of you lads understand. Perhaps some of you have sisters of your own.”
Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You look a little old to be her brother.”
“More often than not I feel a little old, as well.”
“Talk to him, Jimmy,” said the first man. “There’s no harm in talkin’, is there?”
Fleming’s mouth twisted. “Fine. Outside.”
“Of course.” To the others, Ethan added, “Thank you, gentlemen.”
He left the room without bothering to see if Fleming had followed him. As he limped toward the door he felt yet another conjuring, but still he walked, half expecting to feel a bayonet pierce the flesh between his shoulder blades.
Only when he reached the street did he glance back. And so he was ill prepared when Fleming threw the punch; he had no time to ward himself or even raise an arm to block the blow. Jimmy’s fist caught him on the side of the face, just below his cheekbone. Ethan staggered, tasting blood, but he didn’t go down. One blow from a pup like Jimmy Fleming was nothing compared with the beatings he had taken from Sephira’s men.
Jimmy tried to hit him again. Ethan jerked his head back out of the way and then struck a blow of his own, hitting the soldier below his eye. Fleming shook off the clout and came at him again. Still bleeding, Ethan didn’t need to cut himself.
“Pugnus ex cruore evocatus,” he whispered. Fist, conjured from blood.
This conjured punch did what Ethan’s fist