he muttered. 'Dealt with her myself. Wine, spices mostly, some timber, not good quality. Ivory, five bales of furs, wolf and bear, no sable and —'
'Where's her shoreboat?' Raffe interrupted impatiently. The clerk huffled a little, clearly insulted that his feat of memory was not being given the admiration it deserved. His hand slid again over the table, but Raffe was not about to part with another coin. He'd not forgotten or forgiven that laughter.
He leaned across the table, pushing his face into the clerk's. 'I said, where is it?'
The clerk glowered at him, but seeing that Raffe wasn't going to move away, he gestured back in the direction he'd come. 'Crew'll be in the Silver Treasure, up Shrieking Row.'
It took Raffe a while to find the Row for the names were known only to the local townsfolk. Finally one old fishwife grudgingly directed him to Shrieking Row and, once there, Raffe quickly spotted the Silver Treasure by the carved herring above the door, together with the few twigs of a dried bush that proclaimed it as an alehouse.
It was still early morning, so most men were hard at their labours, but those who had no pressing business to attend to sat in the small yard to the side of the house, pouring ale down their throats from blackened leather beakers as if they hadn't slaked their thirst for a week. From the stench of them, Raffe took them to be fishermen. He ignored them and peered into the tiny room beside the courtyard. Three men sat on benches around a narrow table, talking in low voices and evidently haggling over some deal. The only other furniture in the room was a rickety ladder leading through a trapdoor to the attic above.
As Raffe slid in through the open doorway, blocking out the light, the men looked up sharply and, just as swiftly, a hand covered some object lying on the table and swept it from sight, but not before Raffe had glimpsed the wine-red flash of a ruby.
'I'm looking for the crew of the Dragon's Breath.''
'You have business with them?' one of the men asked in a thick Spanish accent.
'I've come to take delivery of some cargo.'
The man's mouth shrugged, as if to say he would need a good deal more than that before he revealed anything.
The sunken-cheeked alewife came in from the yard, rubbing her hands on a filthy old scrap of ship's sail tied around her waist to protect her skirts. 'More ale, masters?'
All three heads swivelled in Raffe's direction. He knew what was required of him.
'Bring a large flagon and another beaker.'
'As you please,' the woman said without the flicker of a smile. Raffe wondered if any emotion ever crossed her sallow face. All the life and colour in her eyes seemed to have been bleached out by sun and sea, leaving them with only the faintest tinge of faded blue, like watered-down milk.
One of the men slid his buttocks a few inches down the bench and Raffe took that as an invitation to join them at the rough table which was blackened with old tar, having been assembled from bits of old ships' timbers and driftwood.
After the alewife had slopped a brimming flagon of ale down between them and drifted back outside, Raffe poured the ale into the men's beakers and tried again.
'The cargo I've to collect is a live one.'
They regarded him steadily, their faces tanned almost to the colour of the beakers, betraying nothing. Raffe wondered if they could even understand him.
He delved into his scrip and laid a tin emblem of St Katherine's wheel on the rough table.
All three men regarded it for some time in silence, then the leader picked it up and returned it to Raffe. 'This cargo, where does it come from?'
'Spinolarei in Bruges.' It was what Talbot had told him to say, though Raffe doubted his visitor had ever set foot on that particular quayside.
The sailor nodded.
'Can you take me out to him?' Raffe asked, taking this nod to be the only sign of acknowledgement he was going to get.
'No, no!' the sailor said with unexpected vehemence. Then he seemed to realize some kind of explanation was called for. 'Captain does not want strangers on ship. But I fetch him. You have money?'
Raffe pulled out a leather purse and unfastened the drawstring, tipping the contents into his hand.
The sailor spat contemptuously on to the floor.
'Not enough. We have others to pay. Much expense. I need more.'