As he stood in the breeze blowing across the harbour basin, Hawkwood pondered the reason for Snake’s night-time departure. Perhaps it had something to do with the three men in military gear who’d crossed their path earlier. This far from the border, there’d be no Customs service; it would be up to the local militia to combat smuggling. Presumably they were the ones Stagg was attempting to avoid.

Light showed over the port rail and Hawkwood could just make out a line of slipways ranged along the shoreline. Several vessels were drawn up on them, in various stages of construction, each part-built frame looking like the exposed ribcage of some beached animal. The shipyard, Hawkwood presumed, where the military was assembling its fleet of troop carriers. To starboard, tucked in at the foot of the hill, was the unmanned ferry landing. A line of lights flickered dimly on an adjacent slope, spaced along the vague outline of something solid; a fortification of some kind. It was hard to make out details.

“New blockhouse,” Stagg’s voice grated behind them. “Case you were wonderin’. Nothing like havin’ the army camping out on your doorstep.”

“Just as well we’re on our way, then,” Lawrence whispered.

Stagg growled an order to the crew. To Hawkwood’s surprise, they did not raise the sail. Instead, leaving one crew member to man the tiller, the remaining four picked up two sets of oars that had been lying alongside the upturned dinghy secured amidships and, after dropping them into the rowlocks, they began to scull the Snake through the ink-black water. There was no rasp of metal, which suggested that all the housings had been well greased.

“Creek’s too narrow for us to tack,” Stagg said from behind Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Rowing’s easier an’ quicker.”

The breeze began to pick up, nipping at Hawkwood’s flesh. He heard Lawrence grunt with the shock of it. There were no other moving vessels in sight and Hawkwood wondered if there were more craft out there like the Snake, sailing without lights on a clandestine mission. Despite the moonlight, Hawkwood doubted whether anyone on shore would be able to make out much more than a patch of shadow moving silently over the water, there one minute, gone the next; a figment of someone’s imagination, hopefully.

The creek extended north in a gradual left-hand dog-leg before narrowing sharply until there were less than fifty yards between the banks. A stone flipped casually from either side of the boat would have struck land. Though he was no sailor, Hawkwood could see the difficulty boat crews would have if they relied solely on the wind to take them into such a tight funnel.

Lawrence nudged Hawkwood’s arm and murmured softly, “You want to stand watch or shall I?”

“You don’t trust our captain?”

“Let’s just say the jury has the matter under consideration.”