“Sit,” Douglas said.
Taversham lowered himself onto the edge of his chair as though it might give way beneath him. “Me laird, I?—”
“When yer ship enters Uist’s harbor,” Douglas cut him off, “and the guards already ken the captain, already ken the crew, already ken the manifest matches every entry in the harbor master’s ledger—how thoroughly dae they perform searches?”
Taversham swallowed. “They… count the crates. Check the seals.”
“And?”
“And... that’s the whole of it. They dinnae open every one. Nae fer a vessel they’ve cleared a hundred times before.”
“So ‘tis just as I thought.” Douglas leaned back in his chair, his index finger tapping his chin. “Ye have tae understand, Captain, trust is nay more than a man-made system. And every system has a gap wide enough tae sail through, if ye ken where tae look.”
“Me laird, I dinnae understand what ye’d be wantin’ me tae?—”
“Then I’ll speak plain and slow so ye can keep up. There’s a shipment due in three days. Timber, iron, salt. The last passage before the autumn currents close the route.”
“Aye. I’m tae oversee the exchange?—”
“Ragnar Ketilsson’s wife will be at that harbor.”
Taversham went still. Not the stillness of composure—the stillness of a fish caught in a current too strong to fight.
“She willnae be there at the start,” Douglas continued. “But she’ll come. She’s the sort who cannae leave well enough alone—and I’ll make sure there’s somethin’ tae draw her out. A forgotten document. A discrepancy in the terms. Somethin’ small enough that she’ll think it beneath her husband’s attention, but urgent enough she willnae wait fer his blessin’ tae fix it.”
He watched Taversham’s face cycle through understanding, then denial, then the grey pallor of a man who sees what’s being asked and knows he cannot refuse.
“When the last crates are bein’ unloaded, ye’ll give the signal. Six of me men will be among yer crew, disguised as deckhands. They’ll handle the guards.” Douglas paused. “Ye’ll handle the ship.”
“Handle the—” Taversham’s voice cracked. “Ye’re askin’ me tae abduct the wife of a Viking jarl. On his own shores. Under his own?—”
“I’m naeaskin’ye anythin’, Captain.”
Douglas reached into his belt pouch and produced a folded parchment. He laid it on the table between them, turned it so the figures faced the captain, and waited.
Taversham stared at the debt record. Every mark, every missed payment, every lender’s note that now bore Douglas Graham’s seal instead of the Kirkwall moneylender’s.
The silence stretched. Douglas let it.
“He’ll kill me,” Taversham whispered. “When the savage finds out—and hewillfind out?—”
“He might.”
“Might?” The word came out strangled. “The man’s called the Stag of Uist fer a reason, me laird. I’ve seen what his kind dae tae?—”
“Good. Then ye ken perfectly well what’s at stake.” Douglas folded his hands. “But that’s a problem ferafter, Captain. Right now, yer problem is the two hundred marks ye owe a man who answers tae me, and what becomes of yer wife and daughters in Kirkwall when I call that debt due.”
The last of the fight left Taversham’s body the way air leaves a punctured bellows. His shoulders dropped, his hands went flaton the table, palms down, as though bracing against a floor that had tilted beneath him.
“Three days,” Douglas said quietly.
“And the woman?” Taversham’s voice was barely a sound. “What’s tae happen tae her?”
Douglas stood and straightened his tunic. “Ye’ll take her alive and undamaged.” He waved his hand dismissively. “She’s nay use tae me otherwise.”
He was halfway to the stairs when Taversham spoke again, raw and wrecked. “I’m a dead man either way, aren’t I.”
Douglas paused and considered the question with the same detached precision he applied to everything.