Page 52 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Nore sank into the comfort of her work. Spycraft aside, wine had been her first trade, her first love. Edith hadn’t seemed so harsh when Nore was barely more than a girl, as Edith sat across from Nore in that office that was now hers. They would get the sample case from each new shipment, a slew of glasses, and a spittoon. Nore would drink sip after sip of wine, reciting the top and bottom notes, the fruits, the age, the quality, the region—she had to know everything, Edith reminded her. Know it, and remember it, and master it.

And all that studying had paid off: Nore’s notebooks of descriptions, now committed to memory, were not so different from the dossiers of nobles and generals and political threads that also lived in her brain.

Wine was a language Nore spoke with acute fluency. She described the notes in each, explaining the luxury in each bottle as she poured the women samples: here, a dark, full-bodied Isbetan casabon the color of garnets with notes of smoked oak, from grapes harvested at just the peak of ripeness; here, a pale-green Whistish grenoir that, to Nore, tasted of late spring in full bloom; here, a sunset-pink dessert wine from Nisielle, bottled fifteen years ago during a warm, wet summer with a growing season so short it was a miracle the grapes were harvested at all.

It was easiest when she only thought of the training and not the practice. When she didn’t remember presenting the facts and the notes to Caspian, urging him to find the truth of each sip. Easier when she didn’t remember what every version of her favorite wine tasted like on his lips.

Nore stopped that thought in its tracks, forcing herself to focus.

She watched the flush come into their cheeks as they sampled each. Though there were spittoons on the tables, her more casual clients often refused the use of them: the ladies in front of her were no exception. She listened as their talk became more fluid. Nore was able to float above the conversation, keeping her observations focused on the wine as the women cycled through different topics: the construction of a new temple in a nearby town, the firstborn child of a friend of theirs, the marriage of a continental duke one of them knew from her schooling (which, interestingly, Nore had already known about—it signaled a union between Isbeta and Nisielle). It was inconsequential, mostly, until it wasn’t.

She could tell when their speech became sluggish and slurred. This was the time when Nore did her best work: when a simple nudge would lead her clients toward their worst impulses, and directly toward the information she needed.

“It’s been very cold,” she remarked to Fiona as she prepared a new bottle. “Is it always this cold at this time of year?”

“Oh, always,” Fiona said. She glanced up at Nore, looking for something—perhaps trying to understand her relationship with Caspian, or how she had ensnared him. “Is this your first time in Idistra?”

“It is,” Nore said, a touch louder, catching as Elspeth and Lucia’s attention turned back to her. She saw when Caspian glanced up, a frown tracing his mouth. “It’s always interested me, how the Idistran nations push and pull.” Nore poured a new glass for each of the women, then handed them around. “Your High Lord is closely allied with… Eprain, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Fiona said, taking her wine. She sipped it, making a face. Nore made a mental note to avoid the more tannic wine for her. Fiona set the glass down, mostly untouched.

“This is an Isbetan casabon sarac,” Nore said, holding a glass of the dark-red wine to the light. In another tasting back home, she might’ve dosed it with something to loosen the tongue—the tannins balanced with the sweetness of many potions. She knew better than to try anything like that today. “It has a strong backbone—you may notice its aroma of oak, licorice, and plum.”

Fiona sat back farther, clearly not interested in learning any more of its particular taste or aroma. She kept an eye on Caspian as Nore talked through food pairings, and Nore watched Fiona watch him. She had the strangest urge to brush a hand over his hip as he passed, or maybe let her fingers linger on his forearm as he chilled the next bottle.

She needed to stop. She needed to focus.

“I’ve heard of a similar wine to this made in Scaela,” Nore said. “I’ve not had the opportunity to taste it myself, but if you’re looking for a local alternative, that would be a suitable option.” She paused, taking a small sip of her own glass, letting the rich flavor roll over her tongue. “Remind me—does Luthar import much Scaelan wine?”

Fiona snorted, moving her glass farther away. “Not if we can help it,” she said.

“So curious,” Nore remarked, turning back to her case. “I was sure there was some sort of trade agreement after the Resurrection, but perhaps I was mistaken… Maybe it was an agreement with the resurrected Isle I was thinking of?” Nore shook her head, feigning confusion. “But I’ve heard so little of the Isle since its reappearance.”

“It keeps to itself, mostly,” Lucia said into her glass.

“Mostly,” Fiona said with a sharp look at Lucia. Nore suspected the bait was taken: this would lead into exactly the kind of topic she was interested in.

“Except for when it becomes inconveniently involved in other things,” Lucia finished.

“Lucia,” Elspeth said as Nore busied herself preparing the next bottle. Next to her, Caspian was arranging used glasses on a silver tray, to be taken off to the kitchens. “Your cousin has been put forward for the festival, hasn’t he?”

But Lucia laughed at this. She had taken to the drink more than the others; she kept asking Caspian to pour her second samples so she could “understand the wine better.” It was not polite behavior, but Nore had long since discovered that not all who had the budget for her wares understood how to behave during a tasting.

And there was no use pretending it didn’t work to her advantage.

“He has been, the old brute,” Lucia said. “Imagine him, all battle-scarred, in her ballroom. Every time I do, I cannot help but laugh.”

“Perhaps she’ll like that,” Fiona said. “I’ve heard her tastes are… peculiar.”

“If I were Lennot,” Lucia continued, “I’d be wary of the whole business. Too much threat of mariticide.”

Caspian’s gaze flicked to Nore’s, lips pressing together. She understood perfectly the threat of mariticide.

The name “Lennot” was familiar—in Lucia’s family tree, he was on the branch that connected her to Luthos, the High Lord. Nore paused, waiting to see where the conversation would go before she presented the next wine, but then Fiona turned to Caspian and said, “What’s your favorite?”

It had not escaped Nore how the woman had shifted closer and closer to him as the demonstration went on, offering little side remarks that made him smile as he poured the wine and cleared away glasses. Now Lucia and Elspeth also turned curious gazes on him.

Nore listened, too, as she prepared the next round based on Lucia’s preference for the grenoir. A servant came in with breads and cheeses and fruits for the ladies. Lucia speared a pale slice of apple and nibbled at the edge.