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Tadhg shook his head. “No, I can only think of one way to ‘settle the matter.’”
The captain’s face paled. “Jesus.” He swallowed as he backed up another step and hit the side of a building; he’d gone as far as he could. He stilled, his gnarled hands up in the air. “How?”
“Tie you up and divest you of your clothes.”
Surprise slackened the grizzled jaw. “Tie me up…?”
Tadhg grabbed a handful of the man’s tunic and spun him around. “Heed me, pilot: I’ve no burning desire to kill you, but I’ve no aversion to it either. If you make a sound, or look as though you are considering making a sound, I’ll kill you before you finish the inhale.”
The captain nodded vigorously, in complete agreement with this plan. Tadhg pushed him toward the door of the empty building behind him.
Hazarding a glance up at the swaying sign above it, the captain suddenly tried to skitter to a halt. “Christ on the Cross, man, you cannot put me in there.”
Tadhg shoved him harder, propelling him toward the door. “Why not?”
“’Tis the port reeve’s office,” he hissed. “He and I have been at odds of late over some…missing shipments.”
Tadhg smiled as he bent to pick the lock.
He pushed the captain inside, divested him of his clothes, and left his mottled, fleshy, white body tied up in the empty office, a rag stuffed in his mouth, to be discovered in the morning.
This was the sort of thing a man would normally loiter about to witness, a port reeve walking in to find a fat, naked smuggler tied up in his office chair. But circumstances being what they were, Tadhg would have to forgo the pleasure.
He melted into the shadows of the nearest alley and sat back on his heels, catching his breath, watching from afar as soldiers dragged innocent men off the distant ships, weary beyond measure to find himself, after climbing as high as he had, to find himself once again, here, hiding in the shadows.
One could almost think he was destined to be iniquitous.
And hiding was precisely what he needed to do, and fast.
Not himself; Tadhg could disappear in an empty room if had had to. His early training with Fáelán and the others had been refreshed with violent intensity these past weeks, being hunted through the Rhine, Low Countries, and half of western France.
His ability to hide was now honed like a blade. He could all but shape-shift, blend into his surroundings, change his looks, his accent, his mien. He could be anything, to anyone, for any purpose.
What he needed was somewhere to hide his contraband. The ruby-hilted dagger lodged in his belt, being sought by the French king, the English prince, and one of the most powerful, ruthless barons in both lands.
For this dagger was quite the opposite of Tadhg. It would not blend in in a room full of daggers.
Indeed, it had been constructed to draw attention: that was an essential part of its danger.
Its long, shapely blade was hard steel, cunningly curved near the tip to impart maximum damage, yet it was engraved with delicate, almost feminine etchings that flowed silkily up the blood gutter like filigree. Most noticeable of all: the fat red ruby laid deep in its hilt, like a drop of blood caught in a raven’s throat.
It was a spectacular piece of weaponry, worth more than a warhorse, clearly royal.
Therein lay its promise and its peril.
And if Tadhg wasn’t careful, his death.
Sherwood was closing in on him. Every outlet to and from the city would soon be plugged. The moment Tadhg tried to leave, be it in the guise of a wandering minstrel, a drunken peasant, or a wealthy, outraged nobleman—he’d used them all in the past weeks—he would be searched. Sherwood knew his tricks by now, and would have issued orders to that effect.
No matter the guise, Tadhg would be searched, and the dagger discovered.
What he needed was someone who would not be searched. Someone gullible. Someone innocent.
Or better yet, he thought, turning toward the sound of a woman’s voice coming down the quay, all three.
The woman walked hurriedly at a fat man’s side. She looked stricken. The man looked satisfied, wearing a chain holding many keys on it and a fine velvet tunic. He emanated a veritable cloud of officious self-importance.
Officious.
