by Lyn South
In the past thirty minutes, the lieutenant has tripped through the The Staple Inn’s salon five times. She has commanded the servants assigned to manage our wardrobe trunks with all the finesse and touchy-feely empowerment of a rabid wild boar on one of King Henry’s hunts. Except for a small figure kneeling at the fireplace— a young scullery maid intent on fanning a recalcitrant spark into flame —there isn’t another maid or footman in sight. The lieutenant has alienated everyone at the inn willing, or able, to dispose of the trunks by unleashing a barrage of verbal abuse at everyone within shouting distance.
On her sixth trip through the salon, she stops abruptly, then strides over to servant girl and stands with her arms folded across her chest. I’ve caught glimpses of the cunning and devious bent in Trevor’s personality. This demeanor is something else entirely. I recognize the aggression set in her posture, and my nerves—already jangled by Nico— are set even more on edge.
“Marie,” Trevor says to the maid through an artificial smile that surely hides clenched teeth. “Isn’t it cold in here? You’re not trying to freeze us all to death, are you?”
The raven-haired housemaid, little more than twelve or thirteen years old, cowers in the veiled rebuke. I feel the indignity of the insults hurled at this child as keenly as a branding iron on my skin. An image rips through my memory. My old master, Captain Bartholomew, boxing my tiny eight-year-old frame into a corner. “Stupid, good-for-nothing girl,” he says, his voice snarling like a vicious dog. “How many times must I show you how to build a proper fire in the grate?”
His hands balled into fists and he pummeled me into submission, blackening my eyes and splitting my lip as he screamed insults about the disobedient and wild spirit that possessed me.
“Mademoiselle,” I say, looping my arm through Becca’s, trying to sound nonchalant. “A word, please?”
“Clémence,” she says. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will keep until I’ve finished helping the maid build a proper fire.”
She gasps when I dig my fingernails into her flesh. “Now,” I say, dragging her into a small anteroom behind the salon and shutting the heavy wooden door.
“Stop it,” I say.
“What? I was being nice. That fire should have been lit half an hour ago. These people need a strong-handed supervisor.”
Nope. Not having this passive aggressive shit. Even with the Consigliere’s warning to not put a toe out of line echoing in my head, I can’t let this pass. “Being nice, my ass. You’re supervising them toward revolt all day. Keep it up, and I’ll lock you in closet for the duration of this mission.”
“Are you challenging my authority to lead?”
“I don’t care what your orders say. Fagin is the one in charge. You can save the posturing for the daily reports to your bosses.”
“No, honey,” she says, in the fake sweet tone that makes me want to vomit. “Fagin answers to me. All of you do. The Consigliere warned you what would happen if you complain about your duties or hesitate to obey orders.”
My mouth goes dry. I hate that she knows so much. I open my mouth to argue, but the realization that the moment I do, those goons will be waiting for me when I get home makes the words stick in my throat.
“What’s this?” Trevor moves in close, I can smell the ale from breakfast on her breath. Her eyes are wide in surprise. “Nothing else to say?”
I shake my head, take a slow step back. She advances another step, and I realize she’s backing me into one corner of the room. “Come on. Where’s that infamous Arseneau back chat? You act so big and bad only when there’s no one around to challenge you, but really you’re just a child playing dress-up in mommy’s clothes.” Her tone is a whining taunt, and a startling realization slaps me in the face.
I side-step Trevor as she moves forward another half pace. “Why are you goading me? It’s like you’re waiting for me to fail.”
“Stop gaping, Clémence,” she snaps. “It’s melodramatic and if your face freezes that way, I will have zero pity for you.” Her expressing changes to an unnerving smile as her eyes go narrow and cold. Her chin dips toward her chest as she speaks. “Why would I want you to fail? It’s my job to ensure you complete the Benefactors’ tasks. If I’m a bitch, it’s in the service of my employers’ best interests. Slack discipline means shit results. Fight me and you fight them. I’m sure we both agree that would be a mistake of legendary magnitude.”
It looks like she’s one loose screw away from being completely unhinged. This is crazy. She is crazy. Another realization slaps me. What if there are cameras already planted in these rooms? What if the Benefactors are watching right now?
My eyes flit up to the high corners of the salon ceiling, then around at the furnishings, including the flower vases and bookshelves. No surveillance equipment immediately visible, but it doesn’t mean it’s not there. I’ll get Nico to run a tech sweep later.
I lick my lips, trying to ease the cotton-mouth dryness, but it persists. “Something’s not right with you or this whole mission. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out.”
“It’s quite simple,” she says with a sigh that punctuates her boredom with our conversation. “Get your head out of your ass. Do exactly as you’re told. Complete this mission to my exact specifications. Before you consider your next move, heed this tiny piece of advice: Think twice before fucking with me again. Or you’ll find out how creative I can be in making your life more of a living hell.”
Chapter 12
Salt hits the back of my throat in a blast of chilled air rolling in from the bay. I have a complicated relationship with the sea; it has given freedom with one hand and stolen precious people from me with the other. I love the wild tang of brine on my tongue and the expanse of a wide-open horizon as I gaze out from the bow of a powerful ship. I love the comforting memories of Papa bounding down the gangplank, ready to sweep Maman and me up in his arms.
Flashbacks of Maman and me huddling together for warmth in a single bunk as our prison-ship sailed toward the American colonies terrorizes me. Even worse than those melancholy memories are those of the horror-filled screams of passengers as that same ship sank from beneath us in a storm. Before journey’s end, the waves dragged Maman down and I was orphaned.
After Maman’s death, irony and some fickle deity conspired to sell me into indentured servitude on a merchant ship, of all things. For two years, I endured life at sea with the brutal Captain Bartholomew and relived the horrific memories of losing Maman every time angry storm waves swelled beneath the hull.
When I’m on a mission, I bury these recollections; the numbness that comes from stuffing them deep enough so they’re not open and raw is a relief. Far from being immobilized, this detachment usually allows me to get jobs done. Focus hasn’t been my strong suit of late.
It occurs to me that stuffing all this rage wasn’t the best idea. It’s also possible that I’m full of shit and the hours I’ve spent scouting around this dock waiting for King Henry’s ship to make port have given me far too much time to navel-gaze.
“Nothing,” I say to Nico through the CommLink. “No sign of The Swallow.”
“Patience, Dodger,” Nico says, his voice warm and reassuring in my ear. “We have a few more minutes. They should be here soon.”
October 11, 1532. Ten o’clock in the morning. That’s the moment Lady Anne Boleyn’s most ardent effort to sway French support for her impending marriage, and elevation to England’s queen, begins. It’s also the moment my personal nightmare kicks into high gear. I’m not sure what feelings will assault me the moment I lay eyes on the living, breathing Lady Anne. The acid in my stomach is already building, forcing its way up my throat in a long, slow burn.
“Where’s Fagin?” I ask.
“With the Vicomte and his wife at The Staple Inn. She’s letting them sample the Miracle Madeira again. They’re nervous that the first batches we served them were flukes.”
“I’m sure she loves that.”
“Gotta keep them happy until after the banquet. While we’re waiting on the Tudors, mosey over to that ship on your left so I can record some data for the historical holograms through your LensCams.”
“Mosey? I’ve never moseyed anywhere in my life.” I say, walking toward the ship. The deck hands are busy moving large barrels into a block and tackle rigging, and shouting directions to the men waiting on the dock. It sounds like they’re speaking a Scandinavian language, possibly Flemish. “I may stroll or amble or even sashay, occasionally, but “mosey”? Never.”
“That’s what I love about you, Dodger. You never miss an opportunity to be a smartass.”
“I did yesterday. Trevor reminded me, for the millionth time, that she owns me on this mission. I had to chew the inside of my cheeks to keep from putting her out of my misery.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve taken steps to neutralize our dear lieutenant when we need to get her out of our hair.”
“Did you roofie her morning coffee? Please tell me she’s blissfully unconscious, and drooling on her pillow.”
“No. That’s reserved for the banquet.” He pauses. “Hey, turn to your left and watch the guys looking at the hull of that small merchant ship. I want to see what they’re doing.”
“You mean the one with the buxom woman as the figurehead?”
“That’s the one.”
“I always thought you might be a boob man.”
If it’s possible to hear someone blushing, I’m certain Nico’s complexion is screaming bright red. “Jesus, just... get eyes on the bow of the ship, please?”
Swinging to my left, I set my gaze on four men, sitting on crude plank swings lowered over the railing. They inspect the apex of the bow just above the keel line. “Got it?”
“Yep. Zooming in now. Thanks.”
“Are you going to leave me hanging like those guys dangling from the ship?” I ask, trying not to let my eyes wander away while he’s recording.
“Hanging?”
“What’d you do to Becca?”
A gust of wind blows more sea spray in my face. The chill seeps through every inch of my navy blue wool cloak from my shoulders to my ankles, and makes me yearn for a balaclava instead of this silly, stylish felt hat that might melt down around my ears before I can get out of the weather. With a cloak edge in each fist, I close my arms over my chest, hoping that gathering the fabric close to my body will provide a more insulation against the cold.
“I filtered our broadcast transmissions, both audio and visual, so we are the only ones who sees what she sees. Nothing she records is getting to the Benefactors back home unless I clear it first. I reconfigured the relay circuits in the main transmitters. I can turn the filters on and off at will.”
“Won’t the Benefactors catch on when they don’t see transmissions?”
“Not if I’m careful how, and when, I use this newfound power. They won’t suspect it’s anything more than bugs in brand-new software.” He pauses. “Hey, check the harbor. It’s a few minutes after ten o’clock. The ship should come into view any minute.”
On cue, a dark blot has appeared on the horizon, and grows larger by the moment. “Looks like a ship out there. Is it the king?”
“Must be. According to the dock master’s ledgers, the next merchant ship doesn’t arrive until close to noon. Get ready. Things will move pretty fast from here on.”
Twenty minutes later, the ship passes the Rysbank Tower on the right side of the bay, and maneuvers into one of the jetties on the far end of the dock near the tall, fortified city wall. Deck hands and dock workers swarm the ship, securing the lines and unloading trunks and crates and barrels from the cargo holds.
It takes half an hour before anyone recognizable disembarks and makes their way down the pier.
“It’s them,” I say, striding toward my next observation point, the corner of a nearby building, which gives me a perfect angle for watching the weary travelers navigate toward their transports to the Exchequer, their lodgings during their stay.
Even after dozens of Sim Lab training interactions with realistic, lifelike human reproductions, watching Lady Anne Boleyn—recently elevated to Her Grace, the Marquise of Pembroke—stroll down the pier makes my stomach churn.
Stay calm. Focus.
“The historical holograms don’t lie,” I say. “She’s not a great beauty, but she has some X-factor qualities going on.”
Even with her wide mouth, hooked nose, and the noticeable oatmeal pie-looking wart on the side of her face, praises that history has lavished on Lady Anne Boleyn are not without merit. More noticeable than her trim, stylish figure and smallish breasts is her regal bearing: she carries herself like she knows she’s supposed to be at the top of the royal food chain. Her eyes brim with confidence and the promise that she could seduce the whole of France if necessary.
A closer inspection of the female entourage trailing behind her—including Henry’s first Boleyn mistress, Anne’s sister, Mary—I’m left with very little concrete evidence why this king would choose her over the dozens of beautiful women who surround him.
King Henry is tall, broad-shouldered, and good-looking. He is not, yet, the bloated behemoth his later portraits depict. If Lady Anne’s magnetism is the biggest weapon in her enchantment arsenal, the king’s position and power are his brand of aphrodisiac.
“Remember, Fagin said stick as close as you can, but don’t engage,” Nico says. “We’re in surveillance mode.”
“That’s because Fagin’s worried I might snap Lady Anne like a twig if she’s not around to stop me.”
There’s an awkward pause, and I can almost see Nico’s brow, furrowed in confusion, as he clears his throat. “Why the hell would she think that? We’re thieves, not assassins.”
Merde. “My family has never been fond of the English,” I say, trying to cover the gaffe with a thick layer of nonchalant understatement. “Never mind. It’s...complicated.”
As the royal couple climb into their coach, I untie my mare from the hitching post where I left her. The palfrey is small enough that I don’t require a boost to mount her, but riding side-saddle is literally a pain in the ass. Negotiating this side-saddle contraption in a costume that feels like it weighs more than I do should earn me a medal of some sort. As I settle into the stiff leather of the seat, the whale bones sewn into the stays poke me in the ribs.
Merde.
It’s a damn good thing my horse—a chestnut-colored filly called M’lady—is gentle. I stroke her neck and nudge her forward.
My discomfort aside, the journey back to the inn is uneventful. Calais is English territory, for the moment, and the streets are filled with townspeople going about their business. As we pass through the Lantern Gate, the principal entrance to the town, there are no crowds lining the street to welcome their king. Could be that the commoners aren’t aware that the king and his lady have arrived. It’s also likely they’re absent in protest. Anne Boleyn is a woman loathed from the English countryside to the Vatican.
No one would ever rain on Anne’s parade, so to speak, because they wouldn’t throw one for her in the first place.
“Spotted Mary Boleyn, yet?” Nico says.
Turning in the saddle, I crane my neck to scan the caravan trailing behind me. There are dozens of conveyances: horses with single riders, open-air wagons, and people on foot. Behind a cadre of the king’s men—privy counselors and noble lords—I spot several coaches creaking along, bobbing and dipping with each small rut in the road.
“She’s probably in one of those closed coaches behind us. I don’t see her in any of the open wagons.”
I hear him moving around the ship’s cockpit. “There’s a message from Fagin. She wants you back at the ship.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Nope. She’s being tight-lipped.”
A drop of water splashes against my cheek. Soon there’s a steady drizzle of cold rain, the kind mixed with sleet that will sting if its velocity picks up.
&n
bsp; “Dodger, you’ve got about five minutes before the skies open up on you.” Nico says. “Some serious weather is moving in fast from the ocean. Get your ass back here.”
“On my way.”
The ride back to my ship is long enough to allow me to ruminate on the problem of Fagin. She used to share the reasoning behind her directives, so I understood the goal of each step of the plan and how it got us to the big payoff for the job. I get that we’re reduced to a shitty one-way shorthand—courtesy of Becca Trevor’s meddling—where Fagin gives orders and I’m supposed to obey. I can see the anger and frustration in her eyes over being as hog-tied as I am.
Since this mission began, there have been times she looks at me with an emotion—if my intuition is right—I’ve never before seen in her: true despair. I’ve seen Fagin put on a great show of pretend anguish over the years; her tears are the perfect distraction so a young, nimble-fingered protégé can pick a pocket, or slip into a room, unseen, to pilfer whatever needs pilfering.
When this is all over, I’ll sit her down, a bottle of Miracle Madeira between us, and make her spill everything she can’t tell me now about Trevor and the Benefactors. Nobody fucks with Fagin on my watch and gets away with it. One way or another, I’ll get my Fagin back.
Chapter 13
A pair of young women slither past me on their way to the wine buffet. I turn to follow, moving with the casual grace that allows me to melt into large crowds. The venue for Lady Anne’s French coming out party is cheek-by-jowl stuffed with people. In a crowd like this, which includes elite English and French luminaries, I can become unremarkable and utterly forgettable. These are perfect conditions for a little light thievery before the real party begins.
