It is the briefest of delays. A murmur in that narrow hall a step back from the threshold.

John calls their guide by name; it is impossible to know every person in a port city, but it is his habit to forge acquaintance where he can, maintain it as long as the churn of work permits. Two coin passed to Edvard's hand, one to see a bottle sent up after them, the other for the man to keep.

It has been time enough that John may move more quietly on the crutch should he choose. But there's value in the way the sound carries; stories about John Silver still seep from the shadow and surf of Lowtown, find life in taprooms and taverns. They have moved into rooms like this together before. The blood-soaked notoriety of their partnership occupies the space alongside them, draw breath as John hooks a hand around the back of the chair to draw it out and settle into it.

Once seated, angled fully towards their masked host, John can be frank as to his scrutiny. Flint and Silver have done this before. John doesn't need him in his periphery to know how Flint will move through this room.

"Forgive us, if you've been kept waiting."