"To where?"

"Millwall Docks."

"Millwall Docks aren't finished yet, Fancy. Why are you lying to me?"

"No, sir, that's what I heard. Millwall. Later this morning."

"I've got a man at Millwall already, Fancy. He says they're closed down for another week at least."

"Sorry, sir."

Jotun heard the distinctive scuff of leather on brick behind him in the alley and immediately realized Fancy was sorry for a different reason entirely. Jotun took some solace in the knowledge that this little weasel of a man probably hadn't betrayed him out of spite but rather out of greed.

"Run along now, Fancy . . . Far away. Out of London. If I see you again, I'll open your belly and feed you your own guts."

"You won't be seeing me again, sir."

"For your sake, make sure of it."

"Sorry again. I always liked--"

"Another word, and it will be your last. Go."

Fancy hurried off and disappeared into the fog.

Jotun quickly considered his options. The fact that Fancy had lied about the Millwall meant he was lying about the ship, which in turn meant she was going downriver, not up. He couldn't let that happen. Now the question became: Was it wiser to run from the men who were coming up behind him or to fight them? If he ran, they'd chase him, and the last thing he needed was a ruckus this close to the dock. The ship's crew was probably already on edge, and he needed to catch them calm and unawares.

Jotun turned around to face the alley.

There were three of them, one a little shorter than him, two much shorter, but they all had heavy, round shoulders and bucket-shaped heads. Street thugs. Throat cutters. Had there been enough light for Jotun to see their faces, he was certain there would be very few teeth, plenty of scars, and small, mean eyes.

"Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?"

"Don't be makin' this harder than it needs to be," the bigger of the three said.

"Knives or hands or both?" Jotun asked.

"Whot?"

"No matter. It's your choice. Come on, then, let's get on with it."

Jotun took his hands from his pockets.