Thieves

by Lyn South

  The ritual continues for each bottle, the vintage presented in five-year increments: A Seventeen, a Twenty-Two, and a Twenty-Seven.

  “How can this be?” The Vicomte says, dumbfounded. He pulls a handkerchief out to mop his brow and my fingers twitch in response.

  As a young pickpocket, I learned how to spot quality merchandise. This handkerchief is superior quality. It’s silk, likely Italian since Francois is several years away from establishing a silk monopoly in Lyon. I could get a pretty penny for it back home since it’s a status symbol in this time. Only nobles can afford such expensive things.

  No embroidery or monogram. I wouldn’t have to spend hours with a needle picking out the threads. My palms itch.

  “Have I proven my wine is what I say, Monsieur le Vicomte?” Fagin asks, even though she can see the answer in his face.

  “It’s quite remarkable,” he says, stumbling over his words. “There is no discernable difference between the old bottles and the new.”

  “With the first shipment, ten bottles of each vintage—fifty bottles in all—you would become the envy of Paris overnight.”

  At this, the Parrot’s eyes sparkle like greedy little diamonds. “The envy of Paris,” she says in a whisper.

  “If you wish to sell this unique wine for profit, I’m sure we can agree on terms,” Fagin says.

  “Perhaps. You will find me a merciless negotiator, Madame,” he says in all seriousness, as Fagin retrieves the contract and a quill.

  If you’re as good at negotiating as you are at hiding greed, you’ll be begging Fagin to pay you instead of the other way around. For a moment, I wonder if the new translator program can indeed read minds because Fagin flashes me a smile behind the Vicomte’s back that radiates her joy of a victorious hunt. She has her prey caught in a thicket, and he’ll not escape.

  “I think you’ll find, sir, that my desires run to more important currency than money.”

  “Currency more important than money?” It’s his turn to parrot; his tone is equal parts aghast and curious.

  “Certainly.” Fagin returns with the paper and sets it down on the table. “I have made my fortune in imports and exports of various kinds, and I find myself an independent woman of means. What I want is—”

  “A suitable husband,” the Vicomte says, with a thrust of his index finger into the air. He’s button-busting proud that he guessed Fagin’s ulterior motive before she revealed it. “Of course, the Vicomtess and I could introduce you to eligible and wealthy bachelors in Paris. We know everyone of importance in the city.”

  “Yes,” the Parrot says, nodding, “we know everyone.”

  “No, Your Grace.” Fagin says, with a demure hand raised in front of her chest, a gesture of both deference and resistance. “I want to provide the wine for the English king’s visit in two months.”

  The Vicomte’s eyes widen and his mouth pulls into a small circle. “How do you know about that? The visit is a state secret.”

  “Sir, there are no secrets at court,” Fagin laughs. “I have my sources.”

  “Even so, Madame, I am not at liberty to discuss the king’s business.”

  “I know what will take place in Calais, and how important this visit is to both sides. King Henry wants heads of state throughout the continent to accept his new lady as queen. He is merely starting with the friendliest ally he can think of: our king.”

  “Madame, your intimate knowledge of the circumstances is as extraordinary as your wine.” He seems to be weighing his words like a merchant at his scales. “Why do you think I can help you?”

  “Because you are landlord of The Staple Inn, the venue for the festivities. Here is my proposal,” Fagin says, rubbing a finger around the opening of the decanter. “I will sell you my wine for twenty percent below value, enough drink for the banquet and some for your own personal use.”

  “What do you expect from this arrangement?” The look in the eyes of the Vicomte and his wife suggests they’re already envisioning their elevated status within Paris society after the banquet as the purveyors of our unique wine.

  “An introduction to Lady Anne Boleyn.”

  “The maîtresse-en-titre?” The Parrot changes its tune. Before, she was unquestioningly docile. Her tone now is assertive and filled with abject contempt for the English king’s lady. “That is what she is. Regardless of her new title and stature, she is a common whore. Wicked and—”

  “Powerful,” Fagin finishes the sentence. “She will be England’s queen. I could have offered this opportunity to any of your peers, but you own the venue where the English court will be received. We could have gone to England, but I thought we could come to an amicable agreement so both of our desires could be satisfied: We get an introduction to the English court and you elevate your status in both French and English societies.”

  “We accept your terms, Madame,” the Vicomtess says, her eyes shining with ambition.

  Her husband wrings his hands. “Marguerite, ma cher, we should discuss this before we commit to a course of action.”

  “Quiet, Henri,” she says. She holds herself differently than a moment ago; she looks assertive, in command. It’s becoming clear who the power in this power couple is. “We shall accept Madame Delacroix’s generous offer.” She turns back to Fagin. “Would delivery on Tuesday next be convenient for you?”

  Sensing an end to the negotiation, Nico’s voice pipes through the CommLink. “I’ll order more Madeira from the Replicator. I’m going to need some help. Wine-making isn’t easy, you know.”

  As they leave, I put myself in the Vicomte’s way. He leans in to catch a sneaky peek down the front of my dress. I bend slightly forward to distract him with a better look. Then I sideswipe him.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle,” he says, extending a hand, a half-hearted attempt to steady me that turns into a grope.

  “My apologies, monsieur. I am clumsy sometimes.” I bat my eyelashes as I slip the handkerchief from his sleeve.

  He didn’t feel a thing.

  Chapter 11

  “What if we don’t have enough?” I ask Nico, trailing behind him as he counts the oak casks filled with Miracle Madeira, the name the Vicomtesse has given to our replicator wine.

  “Please, stop talking. I’m trying to count,” Nico says, as he waves a portable scanner across the wine casks loaded, pyramid-style, onto wooden pallets. “Instead of nagging me, go talk sense into the lady who is drinking her way through France with our wine before the English even get here.”

  Miracle Madeira has catapulted the Vicomtess d’Auvergne, and her husband, into instant notoriety in Paris, and they’ve been hitting the party circuit hard. Their continual demands for more personal-use wine have put a strain on our replicator’s production capacity, and it’s impacting the supply for the banquet. Fagin’s negotiation skills secured our contract as wine merchants for The Staple Inn, but none of us expected threats to cancel the agreement if our partners’ demands for free wine weren’t met.

  Charged with managing the ship and ensuring the health and security of all our technology, it’s rare that Nico leaves the confines of the Timeship. We couldn’t allow locals to ferry the wine from the ship to its ultimate destination, so we paid a handsome sum to rent space in The Staple Inn’s private wine cellars so we could teleport the casks directly into the building.

  Good thing the Benefactors have deep pockets. I can’t imagine how much my occupation of the time-out corner is costing them, but it’s got to be billions of dollars by now. This whole situation still doesn’t make sense, but our primary concern is keeping the mission from going off the rails as the Vicomte and his wife act like teenagers whose parents are out of town for the weekend.

  “What if we run out of wine? The replicator is barely keeping up with generating the supply we need and the banquet is only a few days away.”

  “Clémence,” he pleads with an exasperated sigh “Please?”

  “Okay. I’ll shut up.”

  He shoots me an I
’ll believe it when I see it side-eye glance. In return, I mime the universal gesture of locking my lips with an imaginary key, then tossing the key over my shoulder.

  He works methodically, moving from one stack of five barrels to the next, all the way to the end of the line. Ten pyramids in all. He taps the scanner’s data pad, and then scratches the back of his head as he reads. He gives me a quick glance.

  “Do we have enough?” I ask, again.

  “Each cask holds fifteen-hundred liters, give or take. If each goblet holds...oh, let’s be generous here... we’ll say twelve ounces, that’s three hundred-fifty-four milliliters. If each guest has two or three cups apiece, and we expect about four hundred people at the feast, it should be enough.”

  “Four hundred? The hologram histories say there are several thousand people, from both sides, descending on Calais.”

  “We only have to serve the courtiers attending the party. Besides, we could serve limited quantities to keep everyone’s interest piqued, or serve Madeira to the highest ranking nobles and cheap stuff to everyone else.” Nico pauses, giving me a strange look; it’s an unexpected deep gaze into my eyes, followed by a quick glance at my lips. “Common things are never as desirable as those that are exceptionally rare.”

  “Sweet talker,” I say, kissing him full on the mouth.

  “Is it working?” Nico asks.

  “Always.” I tease him with a quick nip on his ear.

  “If we get the Vicomtess to cool it with free wine demands,” he says, “we have enough Miracle Madeira to get through the evening.”

  “If we don’t?”

  “Then, we serve the good stuff until everyone is good and drunk, then let the landlords fill in with their house wine. No one will notice the difference by then.”

  Nico hunches over a cask on the bottom row to inspect a spigot pounded into the lower crescent of the barrel lid. Holding a cup below the valve, he flips a small lever on top allowing a stream of ruby liquid to fill the cup.

  He swirls the cup beneath his nose. I fold my arms across my chest and give him a curious look and a half-snort of a laugh.

  “What?” he says, perplexed by my reaction.

  “Were you a sommelier in a past life? Isn’t the whole point of the replicator to produce the same quality and taste in every single barrel?”

  “The replicator makes the same wine every time. But, once produced, it’s as vulnerable to degradation as any other wine. Oxygen is the biggest enemy.” He gestures broadly toward the ceiling and the walls of the room as though we might, at any moment, catch errant puffs of oxygen targeting the wine like phantom missiles. “If air gets into the casks, we only have about three days before the drink starts to oxidize and turn to vinegar. We need to pull random samples, daily, to see if the wine is starting to turn.”

  “Who do you think will have time to babysit the booze?”

  “I’d assign our dear lieutenant to that detail, but it’d be just our luck she’d get smashed and start blabbing to anyone who would listen about time travel or, worse yet, talk about robbing the English king. Let’s avoid that if we can. I’ll pop down here and take the samples.” Nico bends down to inspect the fit of the seal around the barrel’s spigot to ensure as little air as possible finds its way inside.

  I consider the outcomes of both scenarios, weighing which one would be worse: Becca’s tales of traveling through time might earn her an exorcism or land her in London’s Bethlem Asylum, the oldest known hospital for the mentally ill. It would be problematic to return home without her, but it wouldn’t put the mission in irredeemable jeopardy unless she gave one of the monarchs a private tour of our Timeship.

  The outcome of the second scenario, Becca spouting off about robbing the King would be disastrous. At the very least, our operation would be blown wide open and we’d be forced to abort. While the threat of what the Benefactors would do to Fagin and me for failing to complete the mission was more than a little problematic, I reckoned we could shift the blame to Trevor.

  The worst that could happen is that Becca’s mouth could land all of us in prison and end with each of us swinging at the end of a hangman’s noose. A shiver runs up my spine. The Benefactors don’t risk exposure by rescuing mercenaries. It’s a rule.

  “Let’s avoid that. You know what they say about loose lips and ships. We can’t give Trevor room to sink us.” Realizing that I haven’t seen her all day, anxiety gnaws at me. The thought of an unsupervised Becca is unnerving. “Now that you mention it. Where is Trevor?”

  “She’s on the ship replicating the last batch of wine for today.”

  “Really?” I say, unable to keep from sounding surprised. “Didn’t we just talk about this?”

  Nico halts his barrel inspection and straightens up to his full height. “Relax. All she has to do is push a button to start the replication process, push it again to stop it, then move the hose I rigged up from the full barrel to the next empty one, and...” his voice trails off. “You’re right, we should get back.”

  “We should talk to Fagin about managing Trevor on gala night. We don’t need her traipsing into our carefully laid plans, unannounced, and wrecking months of work.” I cringe at the mental movie running through my head of a tipsy Trevor spilling every bean we’ve got to the whole assembly.

  “Got a plan for that, too,” he grins wickedly. “I’ll ask her to perform a critical quality control check of the last bottle of Madeira, then slip an undetectable sedative into her glass. The only damage control we’ll have is her hangover the next morning.”

  “You’re sexy when you’re sly,” I say, kissing him deeply in appreciation for his cleverness. “Think we should tell Fagin?”

  “Definitely not. The less she knows, the more plausible deniability she has.

  Nico grabs his coat from a chair shoved up against one wall—a knee-length, onyx-colored number embroidered with intricate gold fleur-de-lis designs. After years of missions where the clothing can be as adventurous as the job at hand, I’ve adjusted to wearing everything from linen togas to miniskirts. For Nico, accustomed to the easy fit of civilian attire, adjusting to the restrictive fit, elaborate styling, and the weight of costume drama clothing, proves to be more challenging than calculating how much wine we need for the banquet.

  He gets one arm into the coat, but the other coat sleeve hangs up on the sword he wears on his left hip. The result is Nico chasing his errant sleeve in small, backward-stumbling circles of flailing arms and flapping fabric.

  He shoots me a pleading look. I stop his Whirling Dervish spin and free the garment from its entrapment between the scabbard and the hilt of the sword. He gives me a grateful nod as I hold the coat’s collar so he can slip his arm inside.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I smooth a bit of his puckering collar that refuses to lie flat. “We lost our ticket to England when Anne de Pisseleu canceled her invitation to the French court. We don’t have guaranteed introductions to anyone attending the gala, let alone the royals. Our options to get to England are fading fast.”

  “After all this time together, you still doubt me,” he teases, wagging a finger. He ambles toward a stack of boxes tucked into one corner, tapping the portable scanner’s data pad a few times before slipping it into a hidden pocket in his clothes.

  He cuts a striking figure as he moves. His pantaloons and doublet are cut from black velvet cloth. In contrast to his pants, the upper garment is close fitting, showing off his strong shoulders and trim waist to good effect. His stockings are snowy white and I can trace the outline of his toned calves.

  The black slip-on shoes are less impressive, the shine of the fabric is dulled by a fine, musty coat of dirt that collected as he moved around the cellar. The smell of wine and damp earth mingles with his natural scent, and it goes right to my head.

  I could sneak into his quarters later, but with Trevor on board, the ship feels like a prison and conjugal visits probably aren’t a good idea with the Benefactors watching every move.
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  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Nico says, “Position yourself as not just the ward of Miracle Madeira’s purveyor, but a writer—a poet worthy of elevation in both the French and English courts—and you’ll get Lady Mary’s and Lady Anne’s patronage. It’s a two-for-one package: Fagin brings the wine, you bring the entertainment.”

  “Not the worst idea in the world. The Boleyns do love all things French,” I say, allowing the concept to settle in my brain.

  Nico steps onto the teleport pad and, smiling, extends his hand. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll figure out Plan B. There’s more than one way to crack this nut.”

  I slip my hand into his warm grip and step onto the teleport pad next to him. “Have a little faith, Dodger. We’ll get through this and be home before you know it.”

  He flashes a mega-watt smile and the sincerity and sweetness in his eyes reassures me. We may be jumping each other on the regular, but it’s the solid bedrock of loyalty and friendship, the easy camaraderie we’ve developed over years of partnership that seems to be turning me and him into an “us.”

  In the split instant before the teleport whisks us back to the ship, I realize a new problem: this apparent shift from casual sex to something more serious invades the space where my vengeance lives, making it weaker, less urgent in the context of this thing with Nico.

  The trajectory of my life has never propelled me anywhere close to ‘happy ending’ territory. Yet, Nico’s touch makes me want to believe I can be happy in love. From what I’ve seen, love and vengeance are mutually exclusive pursuits.

  There are dark impulses brewing inside my rage, and it feels like I’m being pushed down a path that’s impossible to avoid. What if I can, somehow, prevent the carnage that King Henry and Anne Boleyn’s offspring will wreak on the world and my family?

  What if I don’t? What version of happy can I live with?

  Our first days in Calais are a whirlwind of exhaustive, frenetic activity, and at the center of it all is Becca Trevor, scrutinizing everything from the details of the strategic mission operation plan to the culinary choices on the dinner menu. She’s worse than the Benefactors’ babysitter-snitch; she’s a fucking micromanager.