“It’s not so bad, sir. Master Devane does what he thinks is correct, and I am in it for the—as the sailors say—long haul. I will ask you, though … do you need money? I have a bit saved up, I might spare you enough to—”

“Nonsense,” Julian replied, with a shake of his head. “Corbett and I are fine on that account.” He placed a firm hand on the servant’s shoulder. “Thank you for your consideration, and for the information as well. Get back to the house, now, and mind your footing.”

“Yes, sir.” Windom started to turn away and then paused. “Will you really return? I mean to say … Paul would be waiting for you.”

“Tell him he won’t have to wait very long.”

“Yes, sir. Until that time, then. Goodbye, sir,” Windom said to Matthew, and huddled up in his coat he turned toward the house and followed the yellow path of his lantern away from the two travellers.

Julian watched him go. After a moment he said, “Matthew, we’re going to find a tavern that’s open. If not, we’ll open it up ourselves because I need a good strong drink. You with me?”

“All the way,” said Matthew, who thought that if he could get a warm drink inside him on this blustery morning he would break the locked door down himself, and to the Devil with the Devil.

As befitted a town where work at the harbor was constant, there was a narrow street just past a grand cathedral of white stones where the dark water lapped up at old pilings and not one but three taverns showed lantern-light in their sea-grimed windows. “This one,” Julian said, choosing the Flying Jib over the Wild Boar and the Checkered Horse. Inside the Jib, the place had the nautical trappings of hanging ropes, nets and the like that Matthew had expected; there were five other men in the tavern, two at one table and three at another, and a portly barkeep wearing an apron and the jaunty feathered and floppy-brimmed hat of a cavalier.

“Do you have coffee?” Julian asked, and received an affirmative. “Two coffees—black and strong—and a jug of mead. That suit you?” he asked Matthew, who nodded and figured the combination would either knock him out for a few hours or get his flagging jib flying again.

“You have money?” the barkeep inquired, before he got the goods.

Julian unhooked the sword and scabbard from his belt and placed it atop the bar, which immediately drew the attention of the other patrons and a look of dread from Matthew, in preparation to try to save the life of another hapless bystander. Julian drew the sword out, put it aside and reached into the scabbard. His fingers came out with a leather belt in which eight notches were cut, holding eight golden guinea coins. He removed one of the coins and slid it across the bar to the open-mouthed cavalier.

“Sir,” the man said, nearly stammering, “I don’t have the change for such a coin!”