William watched him. As a boy he had once witnessed his father beat a man unconscious for some offence that was never made clear to him, never explained. It was down by the Horse Fair. His father knocked the man down then kicked him until he was still. For two months afterwards, William suffered a great many baffling symptoms—boils, nosebleeds—and when he recovered he began the habit, unbroken to this day, of thinking of his father with active disgust. And yet there was something else, a thing not admitted to, never admitted to—pride. He liked that look his father inspired, the way men took care not to vex him, not to hold his gaze too long. He should step around his desk now and show this jacksnape he had no fear of him. He would say something like, I will tell him you came here. I am sure he will know how to find you. Now I have matters to attend to, as no doubt have you. I bid you good day, Mr. Henderson. Or just Henderson? He would look at him, stare him down. He was comfortably the taller of the two, nor did he think there was much brawn under that coat. He waited, weighing the moment. The room was full of the sound of rain. No boots in the alley, no voices, nothing of the world.

He sniffed, then stepped around the desk. The instant he came clear, Calley brought the brass head down on the spur of his left hip. Brought it down like a hammer. William dropped to his knees and Calley caught him, pressing a hand over his mouth, waiting for the first wave of pain to pass. Then he spoke into his eyes.

“You want to know who I am? I’ll tell you who I am. I am the war. Yes? And today the war has come to you. It has come right into your house and struck you down. Now, it’s like I said. I have pressing business with Captain Lacroix and you will tell me where he is. I know who is downstairs. If you don’t give me what I want I will make you so as you are no use to her. Then I will go down and be snug with her and she will tell me what I want. She will. You know she will. Are you hearing me?”

William nodded. Tears of pain, tears of outrage, were curling over the skin of his assailant’s fingers. Over the skin of a worthless, godless man. Then the hand was taken from his mouth. He dragged in a breath, not deep enough, dragged in another, and began to speak. He gave up everything—or gave up what there was. The ship, the destination, the date of sailing, the likely arrival. He offered to write it down. Anything to get him out of the house.