Runs-from-Bears nodded. "Built yesterday morning."

"It don't mean much," said Captain Mudge. "The Tories like to hang a thief now and then." But he would not meet her eye.

"Bears," Elizabeth said evenly. "This Kahnyen'kehâka you spoke to, did he see the gallows himself?"

"Hen'en." Yes.

She searched for her handkerchief, and touched it to her forehead. For a long moment she studied the toes of her boots: her sturdiest pair, mud stained, worn now across the toes in a way she would have never tolerated when she was still Miss Middleton of Oakmere. It seemed very long ago.

"Well, then," she said, struggling for a confident tone. "We'd best be on our way. Captain Mudge, have you located Mr. Stoker?"

"I have." He contemplated the public house for a moment, rocking back on his heels. "I tried to talk him in!coming here but he's a difficult man, is Mac Stoker. He's waiting for you aboard the Jackdaw. Wants to talk about money."

"By all means," Elizabeth said. "But might I have a word with Runs-from-Bears first?"

When the captain had stepped away to examine a bay mare tied up outside the blacksmithy, Elizabeth said, "Curiosity will worry. Will you go sit with them? But avoid the innkeeper if you can."

He nodded. "And you watch yourself with the Irishman. In Stone-Splitter's village he is called Grabs-Fast."

"I'm afraid that comes as no surprise at all," Elizabeth muttered. She wished for some quiet place to talk to Bears out of public view, but there was no time. "I will be careful," she agreed. "But deal with him I must. We have to get to Montréal today."

"We will get there," said Bears. "But not at any cost."

Of course not, she thought, but again she found herself touching the gold coin hidden beneath her bodice. She had sent a hundred similar coins to Montréal with Will--perhaps he was spending it today, to good end. Curiosity had a hundred more in a leather bag she wore next to her skin. It was a tremendous amount of money for any common sailor; it would even buy a small boat and man it. But for the moment the coins were worthless to her. There was no way to melt them down, and they could not spend a single one of them. Not here with half of the king's navy on the docks and the river, and a good many redcoat officers in the streets and public houses. They might never get out of Canada if a five-guinea gold piece with the profile of George II came to the attention of the Crown's agents.

Bears was watching her face, reading her line of thought as if she had spoken out loud. "Bone-in-Her-Back," he said, and put a hand on her wrist. "To put the smell of gold in the Irishman's nose would not make things easier. Use the silver, there is enough of it."

Elizabeth blinked hard, embarrassed by her own desperation. "Yes, of course you're right."

"Pardon me." A young man had stopped to stare openly at Runs-from-Bears. Elizabeth forgot at times how fierce Bears must look to others: the keen dark eyes, a face pitted with pox scars, a tattoo that stretched from temple to temple like the tracks of the bear whose teeth he wore on a leather thong around his neck. An egret feather dangled from his side braid, and from his belt hung a collection of weapons with well-worn handles.

"Do you require assistance, madam?" Arched brows, and a knowing expression in the gray eyes. She was a lady in intimate conversation with a red-skinned man on a public street; he was an Englishman, sure of his view of the world and his right to intercede. She stared back at him until he began to fluster.

"Not your assistance, sir," she said coolly.

He flushed, bowed stiffly from the shoulders, and walked off.

"Why are you grinning?" she asked Bears, suddenly very cross with him, but not quite sure why she should be.

"It's good to hear you sounding more like yourself."

"It is the only way to deal with such presumption and insolence," Elizabeth said primly.

"Thayeri," said Runs-from-Bears. It is proper so.

Mac Stoker was a big man in his prime, barrel chested and black haired, with blue-gray eyes and a chipped front tooth that glimmered when he smiled. A wide scar circled his neck, twisting white and pink like a lady's ribbon against the tanned skin. He was the kind of man that women felt compelled to look at when he came their way, the kind who crooked a finger in return and expected to be obliged. He was known from Halifax to the Huron as Sweet Mac Stoker, and once he would have made Elizabeth uneasy to the bone. But no longer.

She stood with Captain Mudge, watching as Stoker worked alongside his crew, unloading bales of raw wool from the Jackdaw. He liked an audience, that was clear, for while the others wore work shirts of homespun or coarse linen, he worked stripped to a pair of overtight breeches, the muscles in the broad back and arms shining with sweat. Elizabeth was not outraged, as her aunt Merriweather would have expected her to be, and neither was she intrigued; she simply appreciated the opportunity to observe him from a distance and get some sense of him. By the time Stoker came rambling down the gangplank, wiping his neck with a discarded shirt, she had taken his measure and felt composed enough. If he really was the only way to get to Montréal quickly--and in this she had no choice but to trust Captain Mudge's judgment--she must deal with this Mr. Stoker, regardless of what she thought of him, or how he presented himself to the world.

Captain Mudge began the introductions, and launched from there into a rambling story of the journey from Albany. Elizabeth kept her eyes fixed on the ragged eelskin that secured Mac Stoker's queue. He too seemed content to let the older man talk, engaged as he was in close scrutiny of Elizabeth's person.