"Take it, not an instant too soon."

John Murdock’s sword flashed round and a cry of pain pierced the air. A young sailor fell dead in a spreading pool of blood.

"Let’s have no more of that Mr. Roth. Now give me what is mine," the Captain said, her voice tinged with irritation.

Roth's hands trembled. "That was Israel Hand, who lay for you before, not I," he protested. "No blood owes to me."

"I expect more of my business connections, Mr. Roth, than to stand by mutely while my enemy sharpens his dirk," she said. "Now, my due?"

"Take it," he said. Roth slid a battered oilskin packet across the table.

Captain Flint nodded in satisfaction, seeing her father's complex knots sealing each corner and the centre of each side. She leveled her gaze at Roth. "If all is in order, we are quits."

"Not an instant too soon," said Roth. "You are your father's daughter."

"Why, Mr. Roth? Compliments?" She laughed heartily, stamped her boots, and tucked the packet inside her leather jerkin. "Would you be so good as to escort us out?"

Murdock led as Roth walked them out of the shop and onto the street.

Murdock's sotto-voce click-click-hiss told Captain Flint that all was clear. She bade good day to Mr. Roth, who nodded stiffly and entered his shop. The slam of the door was followed by the thud of the bolt.

Captain Flint and Murdock followed the street to a busier, more prosperous quarter, where she hired a closed carriage that took them to Garter Hill. They threaded their way on foot through Maiden Lane, its balconies garlanded by the working girls' advertisements -- bright silken tit-bridles, bum-cozies, gam-slinkers, and the odd pair of leather heel-tippers.

Incongruously, the lane let out upon a small square centered upon an austere, formal flower-garden. But the houses ringing the square were grander editions of the flats of Maiden Lane.

The Captain considered them -- The Marlborough, a sham gentleman's club, all dark wood and leather within, with many snug private chambers and expert assistants of any skill. The Orchid Palace, run by a veritable dragon lady, featuring tea, Oriental baths and massage, and minnow-slim young men and women dressed in silks. She smiled, recalling how few of the staff were actual Orientals, indeed many were Africans, but with eyes closed, one could hardly tell. The Hellfire, always a party with half the guests in futile masks, pretending anonymity in vice. And the dark entrance in the corner of the square of which she had heard much, but had never been.

"Here's for us," the Captain said, steering Murdock toward a doorway. The precious packet slid about in her jerkin against her chest.