His wife is resplendent in a green silk kirtle embroidered with tiny perfect yellow flowers. Her ivory shift is visible through the slashes in the embroidered sleeves, and the low-cut square neckline shows off an ample bosom. She is as vapid as she is beautiful, demonstrated by her inability to say anything original—preferring, instead, to parrot her husband.
She makes me want to scream.
The Vicomte raises a glass to his nose. His eyes close and a deep inhale follows. His expression suggests he’s lost in the aroma, and wondering if the drink will fulfill the bouquet’s promise when it hits his tongue.
He sips, swirls the drink around his mouth. There’s a contented sigh as he swallows and beams another satisfied smile. “Exquisite. I have never tasted its equal,” he says. “There is a hint of something I cannot quite place.” He pauses for a second sip, another swirl of wine in his mouth. “Is it...wood smoke?”
“Yes. Wood smoke,” his wife agrees.
“I love the new Translator upgrade.” Nico’s voice is soft as a feather in my ear, courtesy of a CommLink set at a comfortable volume. “The speed and accuracy of the translation are so amazing, I bet it could translate the Vicomte’s French thoughts to English before he opens his mouth.” A beat. “You’re discussing the wine, right?”
Fagin’s eyelashes flutter and she glances in my direction. I note the almost imperceptible widening of her eyes that indicates irritation. She makes a discreet motion of drawing the tip of her index finger across her throat. Fagin hates idle chatter on missions. It’s one of her rules: If you’re not directly involved in a conversation, shut your damn mouth so others aren’t distracted from theirs.
I cast a glance at the miniature surveillance camera installed in the ceiling, then turn to gaze out the windows overlooking the lush gardens. Nico can see everything from the command center in the ship. An abundance of rose bushes, and rows of waist-high boxwoods, extend to the oak-lined alee leading to the main road. At the far end of the lane, there’s a sharp right turn in the road that meanders south toward Paris.
“Fagin wants radio silence,” I say in a low voice.
The CommLinks we wear are the most sophisticated communication devices ever designed. The microphones pick up the slightest whisper, and Betty runs noise gates that distinguish between the user’s voice, at any decibel level, and other ambient noises in the room to cancel out distractions. Coupled with a number of creative techniques for discreet conversation in surveillance settings—simple things like turning away from bystanders or using a wine glass to conceal the mouth when speaking—it’s relatively easy to carry on conversations with team members on the ship with minimal risk of eavesdropping locals.
Still, depending on the mission’s time period, communication in the wild can be super tricky. On one of my first jobs, in 1217 France, we searched for the bodily remains of Saint Edmund; a holy relics collector wanted his bones for his private collection. I was overheard talking to the Timeship by a small group of powerful, superstitious men. Turns out that talking to yourself within earshot of ignorance can be misinterpreted as muttering witchcraft spells under your breath. I narrowly escaped burning at the stake—with Edmund’s right femur safely stowed in my bag—thanks to Nico’s technical wizardry and a talking goat.
“I saw her,” Nico says, sniffing in clear indignation. “She doesn’t need to be snippy.” The CommLink goes silent.
If Fagin registers his displeasure, she gives no sign. Her focus remains on the potential buyer. “I have connections with influential courtiers who introduced me to the merchants importing wine from Portugal, Spain, and the island of Madeira,” Fagin says, a coy smile on her lips. “This vintage is an extremely rare Madeira. Let me assure you, Monsieur le Vicomte, this,” she taps the decanter on the table for emphasis, “can’t be found anywhere else unless you come to me.”
“Indeed?” he asks. “If I negotiate with you, then I would have exclusive purchase privileges? A common wine anyone can buy doesn’t interest me. It would displease me to discover that our arrangement leaves room for other buyers.”
“Yes,” the Parrot says, “we would be displeased.”
“If we agree on terms, you will hold the exclusive contract. You should know our wine commands a premium price. Our winemakers have keen instincts for all vineyard matters—from the health of the vines to preparing the casks that hold this liquid gold.” She raises her glass to her nose and sniffs. The Vicomte and his wife follow suit. “They are the only winemakers in the world capable of producing the same wine year after year.”
More accurately, the Replicator is the only winemaker capable of producing the perfect wine, year after year, no matter what.
The Vicomte’s eyebrows fly right to the top of his forehead. “Do you mean there are no variations in your wine from one season to the next? You must forgive me, Madame, but my sensibilities tell me this is quite impossible to achieve,” he says with a smirk that I’d love just one shot at wiping clean off his face.
“Yes, quite impossible—” the Parrot begins, but, mercifully, Fagin derails her.
“I have proof.”
“Please don’t misunderstand,” the Vicomte replies. “My faith in you as an accomplished woman is not in doubt. I do suspect that someone has taken advantage of your natural naiveté, a trait I’m afraid all women share, and convinced you that such a remarkable feat is attainable.” His laugh is thin and reedy and insulting.
Fagin gives me a quick wink—our agreed-upon signal because she’d known the Vicomte would require proof. Five wine bottles are displayed on an ornately carved side table where the trio are gathered. I do this two more times for a total of five new
