'I must talk with Nicholas.'

'Do, do,' encouraged Firethorn. 'Use his knowledge of seamanship. Nicholas could be of great help to us here.'

'We lean on him too much,' said Gill irritably. 'Master Bracewell is only a hired man. We should treat him as such and not deal with him as an equal.'

'Our book holder has rare talents,' countered Firethorn. 'Accept that and be truly grateful.' He turned to Hoode. 'Make full use of Nicholas.'

'I always do,' answered the other. 'I often think that Nicholas Bracewell is the most important person in the company.'

Firethorn and Gill snorted in unison. Truth is no respector of inordinate pride.

London by night was the same seething, stinking, clamorous place that it was by day. As the two men made their way down Gracechurch Street, there was pulsing life and pounding noise all around them. They were so accustomed to the turmoil of their city that they did not give it a second thought. Ignoring the constant brush of shoulders against their own, they inhaled the reek of fresh manure without complaint and somehow made their voices heard above the babble.

'Demand a higher wage from them, Nick.'

'It would never be granted.'

'But you deserve it, you bawcock.'

'Few men are used according to their deserts, Will.'

'Aye!' said his companion with feeling. 'Look at this damnable profession of ours. We are foully treated most of the time. They mock us, fear us, revile us, hound us, even imprison us, and when we actually please them with a play for two hours of their whoreson lives, they reward us with a few claps and a few coins before they start to rail at us again. How do we bear such a life?'

'On compulsion.'

'Compulsion?'

'It answers a need within us.'

'A fair fat wench can do that, Nick.'