Thieves

by Lyn South

  “Would this love of yours have given her own limning—her token of highest love and affection—to another?” I ask. “That seems rather cruel, if she loved you at all.”

  “She has most certainly given that token to another. She made sure I knew of it so I would abandon hope of ever regaining her favor,” he says, looking me dead in the eye. “Caesar, after all, requires his tribute.”

  Fagin places a hand on my shoulder and smiles widely at Sir Thomas. “Pardon, monsieur, if I may have a word with my daughter, please. I require her assistance in a matter of some urgency.”

  “Of course, madam.” He bows his head and then addresses me. “If you’re certain you no longer require my services, then I will leave you in your mother’s kind and beautiful hands.” He kisses Fagin’s hand and then mine. He hesitates before leaving and gives me a long, deliberate look. “Before I go in search of drunken oblivion, there is one thing. May I trust your discretion, mademoiselle, to not discuss what has passed between us with anyone? There are those who would—” he tilts his chin toward his chest and runs his tongue over his top lip, “misinterpret my meaning.”

  “Have no fear, Sir Thomas, you may count on my discretion.”

  He blinks several times, takes a deep breath and nods. With a quick bow, he leaves us in search of a bottle.

  “That was an interesting conversation,” Fagin says, taking my elbow. “Does it mean what I think it means?”

  “I think so. If Anne really gave her portrait miniature to the king in Wyatt’s presence, just to make sure he knew she’s a lost cause, that means the locket which was in Anne’s possession earlier this evening has changed hands. Since the king isn’t wearing it, there’s a strong possibility that it’s in his chambers right now.”

  Nico’s voice cuts in. “It’s nine forty-five. If the king retires at eleven, it means you have a little over an hour to go through both his outer privy chamber and his bedchamber. That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “How many guards outside his apartments?” I ask. I’m already nonchalantly moving toward the exit.

  “Two guards posted. Both looking rather bored,” he says.

  “I need help with them. Get your Renaissance clothes on, Nico, and bring a couple of sedative hypos. We need to put these guys to sleep for a while.”

  “Trevor still slaving in the kitchen?” Fagin asks.

  “Yep. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.”

  “Good. Send her a message to bring more food up to the great hall. I’ll keep her here in the room with me so I can keep an eye on both her and the royals. I’ll let you know when Anne and Henry are on their way back.”

  “Roger that,” Nico says.

  “You don’t have much time.” Fagin pulls me into a hug. “Be careful.”

  My arms wrap around her in a fierce, quick squeeze. It’s the first time she’s hugged me in months. When I pull out of the embrace, I flash her a beaming smile. “Hey. It’s me.”

  Chapter 18

  The party in the great hall fades into faint echoes as I stride through the long gallery. The corridor is empty except for a stray pair of lovers, their silhouettes visible in the shadows of an alcove. I doubt they’re paying attention to me as I make my way to the rendezvous point with Nico. Still, I’m careful to survey my surroundings as I head to the stairs leading up to the king’s privy chambers.

  A figure in black clothing—the ubiquitous Tudor men’s gown and hose—emerges from the circular tower that houses the privy stair. I slow my steps, waiting for the newcomer to reveal themselves.

  “It’s me,” Nico says, waving me forward. “No guards on the staircase. There are two men playing cards in the page’s chambers next to the king’s apartments.”

  “Got the hypos?” I ask, quickly closing the gap between us.

  He extends his arm and hands me a small silver-colored cylinder. It has a sleek, ergonomic shape, designed to fit the contours of a human hand, and it snaps into a square head. A phial of light blue liquid is inserted into the hollow of its base. A control button within thumb’s reach initiates a blast of high-pressure air that penetrates skin, delivering the drug into subcutaneous tissues, arteries, and muscles.

  “What’s in this cocktail?” I ask.

  “Diazepam with a midazolam chaser. Knocks the subject out fast with a bit of amnesia on the side to boot. They won’t remember the truck that’s about to hit them.”

  I nod. “How many doses do we have?”

  “Couple dozen per hypo unit. Unless we have to knock out every courtier in the building, we’re good to go.”

  “Let’s get to it.” I step ahead of him, but he pulls me back to his side.

  “Hang on. There are no surveillance cameras in the king’s private chambers. Once we dispose of the guards, we’ll have to clear the rooms the old-fashioned way. Stay behind me, follow my directions, and once we know there’s no one else inside, I’ll be out of your way fast as I can.”

  I touch the tips of two fingers to the corner of my eyebrow in salute. “Aye, sir.”

  His mouth twists into an amused smirk. “Even salutes look sarcastic on you.”

  “Just my natural charm and appeal, I guess. Lead on.”

  Nico is smooth as silk ascending the staircase; I can’t hear his footfalls and I’m right behind him. On the final turn at the top of the staircase is a small landing. The door to the page’s chamber is open, allowing a narrow glimpse into the room. Firelight flickers against the part of the wall I can see, bathing the entryway in an orange glow.

  I can’t see the occupants, but there’s laughter and the heavy thunk of pewter tankards against the card table.

  Nico makes a small circle with his right hand before pointing to the side of the arched door frame where he wants me to move; it mirrors his position on the other side of the doorway. When I’m in place, he holds up a fist. Freeze where you are.

  He points at the doorway, then cups his hand by his ear. Listen.

  From my vantage point, the view of the room’s interior is more limited than it was at the top of the stair; one short section of wall and the outermost edge of the mantle above the fireplace are visible. Nico seems to have a better view because he holds up two fingers, confirmation of the initial surveillance camera footage. Two men occupy the room.

  Only one man is enjoying the card game; he barks out a triumphant laugh as he slaps his cards down on the table. His partner groans.

  “Cheat!” the loser says. “On my life, with the cards I possess, you should not have won that hand.”

  The loser’s tone is warm and collegial, holding an edge of mock indignation that their friendly banter engenders. It’s a good thing these two seem to be friends. Accusations of cheating can go pear-shaped fast and end with bloodshed.

  “Would I do such a thing to my friend?” The reply is teasing, playful. “If you wish to improve your card skills, I would be happy to teach you. Until then, I shall add these coins to my pocket, unless you want another chance to lose more of your purse tonight?” There’s the sound of metal scraping across wood, and the jingle of coins as the winner pockets his money.

  “Next time, we play dice. I’m good at that game,” the Complainer says.

  Nico points to me and holds up a palm. Stay where you are.

  He points to himself, then points into the room. Going in.

  I give him a thumbs-up.

  The friendly banter stops, and chairs push across the wood floor as Nico enters the room.

  “Sirs,” he says to them. “they have sent me to fetch you. Master Secretary Cromwell requires your assistance in a matter of some urgency. And—”

  “What assistance does Secretary Cromwell require that would convince us to abandon our post?” the Winner of the game says. “And who are you that we should obey?”

  “Am I lord over my master that I should ask him to explain his business when he sends me on an errand? If you wish to ignore Master Cromwell’s command, ‘tis no skin off my nose. I’m certain
he’ll understand your refusal to comply.”

  There’s a shuffling of footsteps, presumably Nico’s, as he moves to leave the men to their disastrous choice of ignoring an order from the king’s most influential advisor. His exit is interrupted by the loser of the card game.

  “Hold, sir. We will obey Master Secretary Cromwell’s order.” Then, to his friend, “We must go see what this matter is, and quickly observe whether his request may be fulfilled by one of us. If so, the other may return to post.”

  There’s a short back-and-forth between them before the more cautious of the two convinces his friend that ignoring this order could cost them their heads. I hear them rise from the table and move toward the hall.

  “After you, good sirs,” Nico says.

  The first man steps out onto the stairwell landing. He’s a bald, square-shouldered man, and the smell of ale enters the hallway before he does. He catches me out of the corner of his eye too late as I lean in and press the hypo against the exposed skin of his neck above the collar.

  A small, pneumatic hiss of air confirms the drug has been administered. He sways on the spot, his unfocused eyes glaze over in a dreamy state. Stumbling to the side, his back hits the wood-paneled wall and slides down the length of it. His legs splay out in front of him as he slumps to the floor like a rag doll that’s been propped up in the corner.

  There’s a heavy thud as the page I can’t see hits the deck.

  Nico drags the man who collapsed in the hallway back into the room. I help him lift each man into their chairs and arrange empty tankards to make it look as though they’ve passed out from too much drink.

  “Let’s check the upper level, next,” he says, maneuvering back toward the staircase. “We can work our way back down to the bedchamber. Stick right behind me until we figure out who, or what, is up there.”

  On the upper floor, I tuck in close behind Nico, one hand rests on his shoulder. As my torso presses against him, I feel an oddly-shaped lump positioned at the small of his back. Attached to the belt fastened around his mid-section is a black leather pouch. I’ve got a good idea what’s inside, but let my hand stray down his back to his waist.

  “You’re groping the wrong side, kid.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “I’m not complaining, mind you, but we’re a little busy at the moment.”

  “Keep being sexy and you might get lucky later.” My fingers trace the outline of what I know is a phaser. “Better not let Fagin know you’re packing. She’ll lose it.” Aside from the strict rule that she doesn’t work with assassins, Fagin can’t stomach blood and gore. Even when she was running small-time mercenary jobs herself, before she became a Thief Master, she couldn’t stand physical violence on a job. I get the feeling something went very wrong on one of her own missions, but she won’t talk about it. She has seen some shit and it changed her.

  “Relax,” Nico says. “It’s just insurance in case we don’t get a solid dose of sedative into a target. It’s set to stun, anyway.”

  “Ok. It’s your ass if she finds out. Let’s get this going.”

  We move in tight lockstep, advancing to the next door as one person.

  The door to the room—it looks to be a library of sorts—is open, perpendicular to the doorframe, leaving a No Man’s Land behind the door to the left and in the corner to the right.

  Nico holds up three fingers, the number of steps we’ll take as we shuffle forward to the entrance. When we reach the door, he moves left, I go right.

  There’s a small alcove over to our right with window seat shelves. Instead of floor to ceiling bookcases, there’s a series of low tables and chests scattered throughout the room with stacked papers and books.

  We’re half-finished clearing when a heavy thud echoes from the next room. We move quickly in the direction of the sound, and hear distinct footsteps walking toward the entrance. Nico sweeps his right arm behind him, catching my shoulder. Together, we side-step toward the wall so that when the door swings open toward us, we have brief cover behind it. As long as whoever is in the other room doesn’t look behind the door.

  My breathing thins into shallow inhales and exhales. Nico’s jaw tightens, his body’s automatic response to the adrenaline that must be pumping through his veins as it does through mine. There’s a thick, phlegmy cough as a man clears this throat.

  Nico holds up his right hand. Wait.

  Balancing on the balls of my feet, ready to move on Nico’s word, I redirect the energy coiling in my belly into taking slow, easy, inaudible breaths. We wait for whatever is going to happen next.

  The room feels stagnant, like nothing is going to move for years to come. There’s a moment where the silence is almost too much to bear. Finally, a man with an athletic build ambles through the door, a book tucked under one arm. He doesn’t turn around. If he had paused for even a second to glance behind him, he would’ve spotted us in a second.

  Nico gives the signal and again we follow our established pattern. We’ve worked together so long, our rhythm is anchored in muscle-memory: He moves left, I go right.

  Sensing too late that he’s not alone, the man spins toward Nico. Before he can speak, I push the hypo against the back of his neck. His muscles stiffen and there’s a whimper before his legs give out. He falls into Nico, who catches him under the arms. The man is out cold before he hits the floor.

  “Meet Sir Henry Norris,” I say. “The Groom of King Henry’s Stool.”

  “What’s the guy who hands the king his toilet paper doing up here in the library? Shouldn’t he be turning down the king’s bed and leaving little mints on his pillows?”

  I pick up the leather-bound volume lying beside Norris. The Divine Comedy. “Reading the classics. Apparently, he’s a big Dante fan. What do we do? Leave him here or drag him downstairs?”

  “He stays where he is. We’ve got to clear the downstairs rooms. Once we’re sure there’s nobody else in here, you can get to work.”

  We move down the stairs—noting the door to the page’s chamber is still closed—and into the king’s inner sanctum: the suite of rooms that comprise the king’s study, bedchamber, and private bath.

  Nico motions toward the door just to our left, the one leading into the outer most room of the king’s private apartments. Tudor palaces are a maze of public rooms. A courtier’s station in life determines whether or not entry into the king’s private domain will be granted. The higher up in the food chain, the more access you have to the seat of power.

  These rooms are heavily guarded when the king is in residence. During a grand occasion such as tonight, there’s less traffic, but it doesn’t mean we won’t have more company. Given that Henry Norris was perusing the upstairs library instead of the king’s bedchamber, it could mean he already prepared the room for the king to retire for the night. Or it could mean Norris is slacking in his duties and has someone else performing that task. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’s the former and not the latter.

  The door is ajar and Nico nudges it farther open with his foot and scoots just to the edge of the door frame. I come in right behind him.

  The Withdrawing Room is a personal study used by the king to entertain the most favored courtiers in a more casual environment. I’d had a few training sessions in the Sim lab set in what was supposed to be a replica of Henry’s apartments, but it seems the historical holograms aren’t completely accurate. Since very few other Observers have been granted entry to the king’s inner sanctum, the reality of the room setup differs from the imagined furnishings of the simulation.

  I’ll bet Nico and I are the first Observers to get this far inside to explore in more detail. There’s no time to take a historical inventory. Instead, we sweep through the rooms—including the bath and a much smaller room that looks like a personal religious chapel—as we did upstairs: moving as one synchronized, cohesive unit.

  All clear.

  “It’s all you now, Dodger,” Nico says, squeezing my forearm. “The king could come back any minute, so be careful
and be quick.” He considers me for a moment and then takes my face in his hands, pulling me into a mind-melting kiss filled with longing and feral heat. My breath catches in my chest at the feel of his lips and the lingering taste of the wine on him. He pulls back, smiles a lopsided grin, and says, “That’s for luck.”

  “Damn. How am I supposed to concentrate now?”

  “I have every confidence in you,” he says, heading toward the exit. “I can keep a better eye on things for you back on the ship. Besides, I have to check on our dear lieutenant to see where she is. Hopefully, Fagan still has her contained in the Great Hall.”

  He gives me a wink and takes his leave. One side of my brain wants to stay inside that beautiful kiss and drag him to the king’s bed for a little more. The other side pulls me back to the task at hand. Damn it.

  Once Nico is gone, I get to work analyzing where the king might keep his most precious things.

  He’s a romantic.

  Obsessed with Anne.

  The locket is a piece of her, so he’d keep it somewhere close to him, in his most private and unguarded moments.

  The bed chamber is the most logical place to start.

  Moving quickly through the study, I enter his bedroom and head straight for the enormous canopied, four-poster bed. The mattress sits on a platform and boasts intricate carvings along the edges of its frame are meticulously crafted. Wood carvings that resemble animal claws adorn each of the lower corners of the platform. A lion, perhaps? Or a bear?

  The canopy is fashioned from royal blue velvet, trimmed with gold tassels and intricate gold embroidery of lions’ faces, perhaps to match the clawed animal feet below. It stretches halfway up the wall of the cavernous room. The ceiling must be sixty feet high if it’s an inch. The bedcoverings are red silk. There’s a fireplace to the left of the bed; a fire blazes in the grate. A sleeping gown is laid out on the bed.