Thieves

by Lyn South

  “Jane,” Lady Anne frowns. “That’s quite enough.”

  “It is no matter, Your Majesty.” I wave it off, trying to appear unfazed by the accusation. She doesn’t know how close I came to defending her. The price of it would have been our mission. “And the answer is quite wrong, it’s not a woman. Go to the next part of the riddle.”

  I repeat the second stanza.

  “Why they love me — lured from mind

  — stripped of strength, remains a riddle.

  If they still praise my sinuous power when

  they raise high the dearest treasure,”

  “Lured from mind, stripped of strength,” Anne says. A coy smile spreads across her face. “And you’re certain the answer isn’t a woman?”

  “Silver dress, crazes most men. Reckless habits and dark woe.” Madge ticks the clues off on one hand.

  “In the dregs of pleasure,” several voices finish the clue in unison.

  There’s a murmur of voices around the circle as the clues are dissected from every conceivable angle.

  Silver dress...Crazes men...but, not a woman.

  Whatever it is, it strips one’s strength.

  Dark woe in dregs of pleasure men love.

  Raises high the dearest treasure.

  Like a toast at a banquet, maybe?

  Silver...garnet...powerful dregs.

  “A cup of wine,” Lady Anne says, her words coming in an excited rush of breath. “That’s the answer: a cup of wine. The dress is a silver goblet. Drinking too much red wine is, indeed, a most reckless habit. Those who love it too much, find dark woes in its dregs.”

  There are furrowed brows and frowns, then gasps of delight as they realize Anne’s answer is the only one that makes sense. Of course it’s a cup of wine. It couldn’t be anything else. We should have known it right away. The murmur around the circle grows into a buzz of excited chatter.

  My eyes are glued to Lady Anne. She’s charismatic—able to influence everyone in her world to give her exactly what she wants. Dangerously cunning. She’s the kind of person who can convince you she has only your best interests at heart while she’s digging your heart out of your chest with a dull spoon. She’s a tormentor, content to cause destruction and death as long as she gets what she wants.

  And her daughter will be just like her.

  “Magnifique,” I say, pretending to applaud the effort. My brain screams at my heart as I wrestle with vengeance. “It is, indeed, a cup of wine. Do you always have the perfect answer?”

  “Yes. I do,” she says, smugly, before calling out to the sluggish servant, “Boy, bring more wine. I’ve worked up a thirst solving our French friend’s clever riddle.”

  The boy steps toward Lady Anne, pours a rich, crimson wine into her cup and, in a feigned baritone voice says, “Miracle Madeira, my lady. This is the wine from Calais you love so much.”

  I know that voice. My eyes drift up to the servant’s face and I have to fight to control my body, my expressions. Disguised in men’s clothes, and staring down at me with a piercing gaze, is Becca Trevor.

  Chapter 16

  “Shit,” Nico says. “Trevor, what are you doing there?”

  Trevor smiles and gestures toward my empty goblet with the wine carafe in her hands. “I brought wine, mademoiselle. Would you care for more or have you had enough?”

  I shake my head, a gesture anyone, except Fagin, would interpret as declining the offer. I recognize the same sentiment burning in Fagin’s eyes: Don’t do it. Don’t go there.

  “You’re wearing your CommLink, aren’t you?” Nico says.

  In response, Trevor smiles and throws a glance up to the hidden camera embedded in the corner.

  “Get your scrawny ass back to the ship, now,” Nico continues. “This isn’t part of the plan.”

  Fagin extends her cup toward Trevor, facing her squarely, and then says to Anne. “Are your servants in the habit of addressing the ladies of your court in such a manner, Your Majesty? In France, such impertinence would be punishable by flogging.”

  It takes a minute to realize that I’m holding my breath, an action usually reserved for moments when I’m distracting my mark with some misdirection or another before picking their pocket. On the exhale, I’d have the wallet out of the pocket or the bracelet off of the arm and be on my merry way.

  I’m not sure what will happen if I exhale now: Trevor’s next move could bring the entire mission crashing down on us. If Becca’s cover is blown, how the hell are we going to get her out of the Tudor court without risking our own exposure?

  “Boy,” Anne says, “What’s your name?”

  “Cesario, Your Grace.”

  “Cesario?” Anne looks perplexed, like the name doesn’t fit the lanky youth standing in front of her. “Are you English or Italian?”

  “Both, Your Grace,” Trevor says. “My uncle lives near the River Avon, and he writes plays. He suggested the name to my mother, who has relations in Verona.”

  Nico breaks in. “You stole a name from Shakespeare for this bullshit? Leave the classics alone. Maybe use Matahari or something else, next time you decide to scupper our operation. Or how about this?” He bites each word off like he’s snapping clean through iron bars with his teeth. “There better not be a next time.”

  Lady Douglas steps forward, wringing her hands. “This is my responsibility, Your Grace. Young Cesario is here on my account. It was not until the boy arrived at court with a letter from my late, dear sister that I learned she left behind a ward in need of care upon her death. If it please, Your Grace, I gave him work in the kitchens so he could earn his keep.” She pauses, her voice shakes. “If he distresses you, I can find another position for him.”

  Anne dismisses her concerns with a wave. “If the boy is now your ward, Lady Douglas, he is welcome at court as long as he remembers his position.” She turns to Trevor. “Can you do that? Never speak to my ladies unless they address you first.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. My apologies. I seek only the health and safety of your guests while they’re here.” Trevor says. “And that they see this visit as a very...profitable one.”

  Trevor is like a splinter that works itself into you so deep that nothing dislodges it. It just sits there, below the skin, festering. “We don’t need your help,” I say. “Leave us to our own affairs.”

  “I am at your service, my ladies. My desire is your happiness.” Her eyes have grown dark and dangerous. Like a shark’s.

  “Of course,” Trevor continues, a sardonic grin pulls the corners of her mouth upward making her look sinister. She’s enjoying this way too much. “I’m sure you’re both capable of accomplishing all you set your mind to doing.”

  Lady Douglas wrings her hand and takes a tentative step toward us. She says to Lady Anne, “Madam, with your permission, I’ll return Cesario to his duties. I’m sure the cooks need him to help serve at tonight’s banquet.”

  I’ll give Trevor credit for one thing: She reads the room rather than blundering ahead. As she studies my face—and Fagin’s and Anne’s—her expression flickers from steel-eyed smugness to something else. Realization that she’s outnumbered, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s enough to convince her this is not a hill to continue climbing, let alone die on.

  “As you wish, my lady,” Trevor says to Lady Douglas leaving behind an air of tension so thick, a one of King Henry’s hunting knives couldn’t hack through it.

  Fagin and I have just enough time to exchange “what the fuck” looks when Trevor’s voice breaks over the CommLink. “You think you’re so smart, the three of you.”

  “Trevor, get your ass back to the ship, pronto, or this escapade is going in my own report to the Benefactors,” Nico cuts in. “I’ll make sure they know you nearly blew the whole deal to smithereens just now.”

  “They won’t give two shits about your report, Garcia. I’m their proxy, so what I say goes. Remember that I said I changed two mission parameters after you sabotaged me the first time? Here’s the s
econd one: Dodger has until tomorrow morning to obtain Lady Anne’s portrait miniature and bring it to me.”

  Fagin inhales sharply. A new deadline is a serious snag in our carefully laid plans. She looks like she’s wracking her brain, with little success, for a way to compress the timeline in the meticulous plans we rehearsed. The current plan is as tight as it can be.

  “If you’re even a minute late, Dodger, Fagin and Nico will pay the price for your failure. Believe me when I say: I have punishments in mind that will make them cry for mommy.”

  “Melodrama isn’t necessary to make a goddamn point!” Nico says in a rush of angry breath.

  “While I do love good theater, this isn’t melodrama. If Arseneau fails this task, I’ll take it out of your ass. Fagin’s, too. Fancy a long stretch in maximum security on a prison planet after we get home? I can arrange that.”

  A crowded room is the world’s worst place to listen as to your world goes to shit and you’ve got to keep a straight face. Fagin and I trade looks and for a moment, I consider storming out of the room to chase Trevor down.

  “Dear Clémence,” Lady Anne says, her dark eyes flood with concern. Guess my poker face needs work. “What is it that troubles you so? The color is gone from your cheeks and you’re trembling.”

  “The next shipment of our Madeira is late because of storm in the channel,” Fagin says, putting a protective arm around me. “We’re worried there won’t be enough wine for the banquet tonight.”

  Trevor keeps yammering in my ear, continuing to argue with Nico. “You three clowns don’t call the shots. I do. I can add time limits to deliver an item. I can add so many items to the list that you’ll die of old age before this mission is done.”

  “This is crazy,” Nico says. “Nothing you’re doing makes sense if the goal is to acquire the objects on the list and get back home.”

  “You keep forgetting that stealing the artifacts is only half of the mission. The other is making our wayward Dodger a cooperative and obedient asset.”

  “Then why make it harder on her?” he asks, his voice filled with a lover’s fierce protectiveness.

  “Because obedience is forged in fire,” Trevor snaps. “Besides, is payback for the three of you fucking with me in Calais. Don’t blow this deadline or you won’t like what comes next.”

  A gentle touch on my arm grounds me back into my surroundings. Lady Anne smiles at me, and her empathy and warm are as surprising as a burst of sunlight in a storm. Her comforting gesture makes me squirm in my seat; she’s not supposed to be nice. She’s supposed to be a bitch bent on world domination, or at least her little corner of it. I find myself liking her, a little bit, in spite of myself.

  “If we don’t have enough wine for the banquet tonight,” she says. “We’ll serve the best Madeira early, then offer lesser wine when the courtiers won’t know the difference. Dear girl, don’t worry. All will be well,” Anne says, with a note of finality. She holds my hand. “I will welcome the king home and give him this token. All of you,” she sweeps an arm around the room, “make yourselves beautiful. We have a feast to attend.”

  Chapter 17

  Rain drives against the stained-glass windows at the far end of Greenwich Palace’s great hall, making the images seem eerily animated when lightning strikes. It’s mesmerizing. The colors flicker and fade in staccato rhythm against the fluid motion of the water as it cascades down the glass in sheets.

  Another immutable gray day in England. There’s not a window in the palace that permits more than a murky glimpse of the gardens. Even if the storm abated, there wouldn’t be much to see. The landscape is withered. Dead. Autumn’s color and crispness have been exiled by early winter’s carrion of muted brown hedges and trees defrocked of their clothes.

  Defrocked is exactly how I feel. I’ve been stripped bare of every shred of autonomy, every last ounce of freedom. Trevor might as well parade me around the palace on a fucking leash. It’s a wonder she doesn’t make me beg her permission to breathe.

  Throngs of courtiers file into the Great Hall for the evening’s festivities: another banquet celebrating Anne’s triumph with King Francois. It’s been the Party That Never Ends since we left Calais. King Henry has worked overtime ensuring the point of Anne’s elevation to queen is driven home ad nauseam.

  It has gotten pretty damn old, pretty damn fast.

  “We’ve been in tougher spots,” Fagin says as we survey the room and the courtier circus as the pecking order rears its ugly head.

  For a moment, my mentor seems like the Fagin of old as she mulls over Trevor’s deadline: She looks in control. Calm. Determined.

  For all her Machiavellian traits, she has chinks in her emotional armor. All but imperceptible to others, they’re as glaring and obvious to me as her tells when bluffing at cards.

  Her fingernails are chewed down to the quick.

  Dark circles lie in the hollows beneath her blue eyes.

  She rubs the right side of her face where the lower jaw hinges; a sign she’s been grinding her teeth nearly nonstop for the last few hours since the thorn in our collective sides put us on a clock.

  “Nico,” I say, “any luck finding references in the holograms about when Anne gives Henry limning?”

  Nico’s voice buzzes through the CommLink. “Nada. So far, the logs only reference sparse facts we already know: The mini-portrait was painted by Holbein and given to the king as a gift. Nothing more than that.”

  “Keep looking,” Fagin says. “While you’re at it, keep eyes on Trevor for the rest of the night and let us know if she gets anywhere near us. I don’t want any more surprises like the one we got in Anne’s chambers.”

  “Roger,” comes the reply. “At the moment, the dear lieutenant is in the kitchen turning a pheasant on a spit over an open fire.”

  “Is she miserable?” I ask, and Fagin raises an eyebrow. I shrug in return.

  “She’s been a mosquito dive-bombing my ear for the last hour. I had to turn the volume down on her CommLink because I couldn’t listen to her anymore.” He pauses, then says with an expectant tone, “And... you’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry. What are we thanking you for?” Fagin asks.

  “For keeping Trevor on another CommLink frequency so you don’t have to listen to her.”

  “Keep us updated. If she’s frustrated, she might let something important slip,” Fagin replies.

  “She’s not likely to start screwing up now that she’s got us all dancing to her beat,” I say.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Fagin shakes her head and gives me a knowing look. “Hubris like hers always costs something, and it’s usually a big fat mistake that kicks your ass out of the frying pan and into the flames.” She cranes her neck forward, peering around a gaggle of women clustered together just near a wide, floor-to-ceiling carved wood pillar at the room’s entrance. She gives a subtle nod in their direction. “Madge Shelton and Grace Parker just joined those women. That means the rest of the royal circle probably aren’t far behind.”

  “What’s the plan?” I ask. The adrenaline is pumping. I love this juice that kicks up my heart rate and makes my blood race through my veins like wildfire. This time, though, it’s tainted with a sickening jolt of fear: What happens if I fuck up?

  If Trevor really does go gunning for Fagin or Nico, I’ll—

  “Work the plan,” Fagin says, interrupting my thoughts. “Just like any other mission day. Glean as much information as we can and go from there. Lady Anne likes you, so maybe a simple, direct question about the limning will do the trick.” Fagin says.

  “Stranger things have happened,” I say. “There was that time in the French Quarter working a job for the high-rolling pirate buff. Remember?”

  Fagin saunters into the Great Hall—I follow close behind—and peruses the sweets table. “The Battle of New Orleans agreement between Jean Lafite and General Andrew Jackson.”

  I nodded “I thought it was going to be a lot of cloak and dagger stealth, but all I had
to do was talk to that pirate, Reginald Hicks. He told me exactly where—and when—the two would meet. All I had to do was ask.”

  Fagin rolls her eyes and the look is unmistakable: She knows when I’m leaving something out of the story.

  “Yeah, I know. I had to find him a priest to perform the ceremony so he could marry his sweetheart before the war started.”

  “The Pirate Reginald Hicks,” Nico says, cackling with glee. “That gets me every time. It’s like calling a pirate Larry. Or Bob. Or Walter. It doesn’t exactly conjure images of fierce, leave-no-witnesses pillaging and plundering.”

  “I’m sure you remember Reggie’s plundering skills were more than adequate,” I say, dryly. “Didn’t he pick your pocket at Laffite’s mansion when you left the ship to check up on me?”

  “You went dark for two hours. I was worried.” He expels a rush of air in one large exasperated breath. “And, don’t remind me about Reggie’s skills.” I can actually hear the air quotes he must be making around the last word. “That rat-bastard kept my money.”

  “Save it for later, you two,” Fagin says, nodding toward Lady Anne as she, and the rest of her entourage, stroll into the Great Hall. “It’s show time.”

  The party reminds me of the training sessions in the Sim Lab version of Greenwich. Same layout for the public spaces, same corridors and staircases and bedchambers. I’m assuming the guards posted outside Henry’s rooms are already on duty, too. Aside from the difference in the item I’m going to acquire tonight—Henry’s rosary will have to wait awhile—there’s one other big difference between the Sim Lab training practice and this job: This time, we’re going in blind.

  No days or weeks of practice. No do-overs. Only one shot to get this right.

  Fagin and I pick our way through the crowd. Trestle tables are placed end-to-end along the longest walls in the oblong room; this is where the invited guests will sit when they’re not schmoozing and dancing. At the far end of the room is the head table where Lady Anne has joined the king.