Hawkwood grinned.
As Hawkwood climbed the steps to the quayside, the burly ex-sergeant shook his head and stared glumly at the Runner’s retreating back. “I bloody ‘ope you knows what you’re doin’, you mad bugger,” he grunted.
As Hawkwood made his way along the quay, he wondered if it had been such a good idea to leave Jago behind. The ex-sergeant was a good man to have at your back, but it didn’t make sense both of them walking into what might be the lion’s den. So Hawkwood, against his better judgement, and to Nathaniel Jago’s understandable dismay, was on his own.
At least he was having no trouble blending into his surroundings. He’d had no time to return to his lodgings since reporting back to James Read. His long hair remained unbound and he was still wearing the remnants of his old uniform. To anyone on the dockside, he was just another ex-soldier turned river worker. No one spared him a second glance. Hawkwood picked his way along the busy waterfront, senses alert.
Very few people had permanent jobs on the river. Most were casual workers, or lumpers, who lived in the crowded alleys and lanes that ran down to the water, their livelihood dependent solely on the movement of vessels. Most lumpers were either holders, who worked inside the ship’s hold, or deckers. Deckers lifted the cargo to and from the vessel, either on to the dockside or via a lighter. It was hard, back-breaking work, requiring brawn rather than brain. But no man complained if it put a roof over his head or food on the table.
The waterfront was piled high with produce. A heap of sugar sacks sat on the quay in front of him. Without breaking stride, Hawkwood swung the top sack on to his shoulder and carried on walking. He waited for the angry cry but none came. Using the sack to partially conceal his features, he continued along the jetty.
Hawkwood had no clear idea of how he was going to gain access to the warehouse and yard, other than by stealth or deception. He was still considering his options when his attention was caught by a group of men lounging in the doorway of a grog shop. One in five buildings along the riverfront sold liquor in one form or another. Most innkeepers acted as agents, supplying men to ships. Needless to say, they also supplied liquor to the men, deducting the cost from their earnings. It was a lucrative business and there was no shortage of labourers looking for work, so there was nothing untoward about the scene itself. It was the face of a man leaving the grog shop, a knapsack slung over his shoulder, that had caught Hawkwood’s eye. It was a face he recognized, though he couldn’t put a name to it. Then he remembered. It belonged to one of the group who had shared a table with Scully, in Noah’s Ark.
Coincidence? It couldn’t be that simple, surely? But there wasn’t time to dwell on the matter, the man was on the move, heading towards the timber yard. Hawkwood, increasingly conscious of the dead weight he was carrying on his own shoulder, considered his lack of options and set off in cautious pursuit.
For one nerve-shredding moment, Hawkwood wondered if his quarry knew he was being followed. At the end of the gangway spanning the loading dock, the man paused suddenly and looked behind him. Hawkwood turned away quickly. When he looked back the man had resumed his journey. He’s being careful, Hawkwood thought. He doesn’t know he’s being followed, but he’s checking to make sure, and that in itself was cause for thought.
They were approaching the end of the quay. The warehouse and yard lay directly ahead, and the crowd was beginning to thin. Suddenly, twenty paces in front of Hawkwood, the man turned away from the river and ducked into an alleyway. Hawkwood paused, adjusted the sugar sack on his shoulder, then followed around the corner. He found himself unexpectedly at the top of a short wooden stairway. At the bottom of the stairway was a door. Hawkwood’s quarry was there, knapsack at his feet, fumbling with a key. As Hawkwood’s boot hit the top step, the man looked up. Hawkwood was given no time to turn aside. Startled, the man’s eyes widened in shock, then recognition. His hand snatched towards his waist.
Hawkwood hurled the sugar down the stairs. The heavy sack struck his target full in the chest, knocking him off balance. The knife he’d drawn from his belt rattled to the ground. Hawkwood went down fast. His boot thudded into the man’s crotch. As his victim collapsed in a gargling heap, hand clutching his genitals, Hawkwood picked up the knife and jabbed the point of the blade under the unshaven chin.
“Now then, culley, that’s no way to greet an officer of the law.”
No response, other than a low whimper.
Hawkwood bent low. “Sorry? What’s that? Can’t hear you.”
Another groan of pain.
Hawkwood sighed. “All right, let’s start with your name.”
“S-Sparrow.” The reply came in a whisper. “W-Will Sparrow.”
“You’re Spiker’s mate,” Hawkwood said.
Sparrow stared at him. “S-Spiker’s dead.”
“I know that,” Hawkwood grated. “I watched him die.”
Fear drove the last of the colour from Sparrow’s face.
“So,” Hawkwood said, “I’m wondering what brings you to this neck of the woods. Running errands for William Lee? Rushing to tell him the news about Spiker, maybe? That it, Sparrow? Is Lee inside?” Hawkwood reached out and pulled the knapsack towards him. He put a hand inside. Some bottles, a loaf of bread and what felt like a slab of cheese. “What’s this then, breakfast for the troops?” Hawkwood pressed the point of the knife under the skin of Sparrow’s throat. A tiny bubble of blood appeared beneath the tip of the blade. “I think you and me should have a little talk, culley. In private, where no one can hear us. What do you say?”
Sparrow blinked fearfully. Then his eyes moved and Hawkwood heard the faint hiss of breath. Sparrow wasn’t looking at him, he realized. He was looking at something behind him, in the doorway. Hawkwood started to turn, but he was about a thousand years too late. He sensed the shadow above him, heard the soft footfall, followed by a massive explosion of pain as he was struck hard behind the right ear.
The thought that passed through his mind as he went down was, curiously, not how much the blow had hurt, but that this was the second time he’d been taken by surprise in nearly as many hours. It was getting to be a nasty habit. Or maybe it was a sign that he was growing too old for this sort of game. The second thing that struck him as he began to slip away was that the attack had clearly affected his sense of smell. He could have sworn that the impact upon his skull had been accompanied by the faint yet unmistakable scent of lemons.
Hawkwood saw the rat as soon as he opened his eyes. It was impossible to miss. It was huge, at least a foot and a half long from nose to tail. There were rich pickings to be had along the waterfront and the rodent looked well fed and healthy, its pelt as shiny as velvet. Unafraid, the rat sat back on its hind legs, front paws raised, and sniffed the air, whiskers twitching. Finally, curiosity overcoming caution, it dropped back to all fours and scampered fluidly across the floor. Six feet away, it paused and stared at Hawkwood with bright, beady-eyed expectation.
Hawkwood raised his head. A big mistake. Pain lanced through his skull. He groaned and closed his eyes, willing the hurt to subside. He opened his eyes again, cautiously, his cheek against the cold stone. The view hadn’t changed. The rat was still there, watching him.
Something touched his shoulder. Instinctively, Hawkwood jerked away and regretted it instantly as another bolt of lightning seared along his optic nerve.
“Easy, my boy, easy.” The voice was gentle and soothing. “Here, let me help you up.”
Hawkwood felt guiding arms around his shoulders as he was assisted into a seated position against the wall. He put a hand to the back of his skull and winced as his fingers explored broken skin and what felt like dried blood. Slowly, he raised his aching head.