The School for Thieves, page 10
“You said that we graduate in our chosen art form,” he muttered, forcing his thoughts back to the school. “What does that mean?”
“Every teacher specializes in a different subject,” said the Corsair. “And they are some of the finest exponents of their various art forms in the world. You will study under each of them, and in time, you will choose which subject you wish to pursue professionally—that will then become your sole academic and practical focus in your final year and it is what will become your specialty as a career. So, for example, the Master of Artemis House, Leopold Fabergé, is the safe-cracking, lock-picking, and forgery teacher. Incredibly dexterous, a wonderful artist, and possessed with the keenest hearing imaginable.
“Horacio Pemberley, the Master of Duplicity House, teaches escape and evasion. He is brilliant with disguises and a genius when it comes to voices and accents, hiding in plain sight, melting into the background, and disappearing at the drop of a hat. A great man.
“Valeria Novgorod is the Master of Ghost House. She is an expert in interrogation and counter-interrogation techniques as well as espionage, counter-espionage, and spy craft—her skill set is not entirely traditional for Beaufort’s curriculum, but her mother was a famous spy, her father a great thief, and we take advantage of her broad expertise. A brilliant woman. Stern, though. You want to stay on her good side, believe me.
“The Master of Janus House is an interesting one.” A smile played across the Corsair’s lips. “She has multiple alter egos who teach different subjects. She is the daughter of two of the world’s greatest con artists and learned, since she was a toddler, to create different personalities. Her parents believed in method acting, which was a discipline she followed devotedly, adopting a variety of full personalities by the time she was five. When she started at Beaufort’s she found that if she adopted different personas that were an expert in the subject she was studying, she passed the exams with flying colors. She then followed this logic to the next step and permanently assumed these multiple alter egos, interchanging them as the occasion requires. She is, therefore, technically five different personalities, albeit they all occupy a single body.”
“And what do we call her?”
“It depends who she is. She was born Sabrina Krazinski, but she is also Sylvia Lucotti and Daphne Tilston and Phoebe Pepperdine and Lucinda Goodhugh.”
Tom puffed out his cheeks.
“Then there’s Cordelia Inksetter, the Master of Swindle House. She’s an expert in hostage taking, negotiation, ransom collection, hostage delivery, and escape.”
“How many teachers are there?”
“It varies. We often have guest lecturers who are seconded to the school from the League to present case studies or teach skills they have acquired in the field that are not part of the standard curriculum. But on a more permanent basis we have the six Masters and seven other teachers, whom you will meet in due course.
“And then there is the headmaster, Siegfried Templeton. A brilliant thief. A genius. And very exacting in his standards.” The Corsair removed the pocket watch once again, his lips moving slightly as he calculated something in his head.
“Why do you keep checking the time?”
“You’ll see. In approximately… sixteen minutes.”
“What happens in sixteen minutes?”
“You’ll see.”
“And what about you? What do you teach?”
The Corsair grinned toothily. “Many things, actually. But when I graduated I was one of the first pupils for more than forty years to take up piracy.” He made a hook shape with his index finger and closed one eye. “Argghhh.”
Tom laughed.
For the next ten minutes the Corsair went into greater and greater detail about the school, the teachers, about famous former pupils and guest lecturers. The pocket watch lay on the table between them, and every so often the Corsair’s eyes would stray to its face.
“I think it’s time we got moving,” he said at last.
“Where to? I like the view from here,” said Tom, not wanting to go back to the windowless cabin, as comfortable as it looked.
“You like the view? Well, that’s good. That’s very good.”
Tom frowned at the grin that had spread under the Corsair’s beard, but before he could ask another thing, the thief was up and moving away from the table, heading back to the corridor that led to their cabin.
Tom was surprised when the Corsair didn’t turn up the stairs. Instead, he continued on down the corridor, passing cabins on either side until he pushed through a riveted steel door at the far end marked CREW ONLY.
Now they were in a service and maintenance area equipped with tools. On the far wall was another door with a sign that read: STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL.
The Corsair dipped into his coat pocket and removed a small leather pouch from which he pulled several thin, spindly tools. He selected two of these and inserted them into the lock on the door. After just a few seconds the lock clicked and the door opened to reveal a long corridor that ran along the base of the main hull of the airship, between the outer canopy and the gas-filled container above them.
Tom’s stomach lurched as the Corsair set out along a slender walkway. There seemed so little to it—it was barely a foot wide. The roar of the wind and of the airship’s engines filled his ears, and he had to choke down his sudden sense of terror. If he slipped and fell from the walkway… all that separated him from the distant ground was that thin canvas….
“Come on, come on,” called the Corsair. “Time is of the essence.”
Hesitantly, Tom stepped out onto the walkway and followed, nerves trembling from the soles of his feet to the tip of his crown and all points in between.
After thirty yards or so, the Corsair came to a halt. When Tom looked ahead to see why, the sight almost made him lose his footing altogether. There was an opening in front of them through which Tom could see the ground far below—mountaintops and a forest appearing in and out between the drifting clouds.
The Corsair reached up and activated a lever. There was a crunching of gears and then a whine as a rigid trapeze began to rise up out of the gap. Tom’s breath caught in his throat. The small parasite aircraft he had seen from the aerodrome runway was being raised from its hanging beneath the hull. It shuddered to a halt.
“What are we doing?” cried Tom over the din, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets.
“We’re stealing a plane,” said the Corsair nonchalantly. “It’s the kind of thing we do—or did I not make that part clear?” He climbed into the front seat of the open cockpit and indicated a second seat just behind. “Hop in.”
“But—”
“Get in, get in! We don’t have time to fool around.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry. Your belongings have been loaded on already. I bribed the porter.”
“But—”
“Just get in, Tom!”
Tom did as he was told. He climbed in awkwardly, feeling like he was about to slip and fall to his death at any second. But somehow he managed to drop himself safely into the cockpit, where he hunkered down as low as he could, pulled the seat belt tight around him, and tried to tuck his face into the comforting folds of his fur coat.
The Corsair turned around and chortled. “You look like a hairy tortoise,” he said, reaching up to activate the lever again. “That green tinge is just the right color.”
There was another crunch of gears as the mechanics went into reverse and, with that same whine, the trapeze began to descend.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut as the wind lashed his face. He tried to force himself still deeper into his seat. There was a chug-chug-chug followed by a steadying thrum as the Corsair started up the engine and the propellers spun. There was a clonk, and the plane dropped away from the trapeze—and Tom felt like his stomach had been left behind with it.
It was only the Corsair’s roaring laughter and relentless ribbing at his cowardice that made him open his eyes again.
His mind could barely process what he was seeing. They were soaring beneath the clouds, an ocean of rolling green forest below them, broken only occasionally by the ragged peaks of mountains and the shimmering glint of a wide, meandering river.
Tom looked up, but the zeppelin was lost above the clouds and no doubt now miles away. He dug his nails into the soft fold of skin between thumb and forefinger. It hurt. Against all the odds, this really wasn’t a dream.
“Try to enjoy it,” called the Corsair. “You’re perfectly safe.”
“Is this how you normally get to the school?” asked Tom at last, trying to keep his voice level. It instead rose to a squeak as the plane was jolted by turbulence.
“Ha! No. Just a little treat for you.”
“How kind…”
Tom started to feel a little less sick and a fraction less terrified. He realized they were following the path of the river below. The terrain was becoming increasingly mountainous, and he could see snow on some of the higher peaks—which they were now beginning to pass between rather than over.
Sometime later he noticed the river foaming white beneath them as it grew narrower. Everywhere he looked was both stunning and fierce, a vista that he had barely imagined could exist.
“Not far now,” called the Corsair, and he threw an arm out and pointed toward the ground. “See down there?”
Tom forced himself to peek over the side of the cockpit. Below them, at the foot of a steep, forested valley, he could see what looked like buildings.
“That’s the old underground railway station,” shouted the Corsair. “Long-abandoned now, but it’s how the students used to get to and from the school.”
“How do they get there now?”
“There’s a cable car on the other side of the mountain, which leads to a newer station. The cable car runs beneath the canopy of the pines, so it’s invisible from the air. It carries people and supplies up through the mountains, which are virtually impassable otherwise. Well, it’s possible to go by foot, but as you can see, the terrain is difficult and it’s dangerous—which is one of the main reasons the founders decided to build the school here. It keeps us from being stumbled upon by outsiders.”
Stumbled upon, thought Tom. Out here? It was all so remote, so rugged and severe, it was hard to believe anyone could build anything of note here, let alone an entire school—
But then he saw it.
He blinked.
That was really it.
Beaufort’s School for Deceptive Arts. Thieves School.
Built on a high plateau, perched between mountain peaks and surrounded by thick dark forest, was a small town. As they glided lower, Tom could see squares and towers and turrets all made from the same light gray stone as the surrounding peaks. He could see what appeared to be a canal system, which ran right across the plateau before dropping away in a tumbling waterfall to the river below.
A high circular wall surrounded the town, with towers dotted along the circumference. There were hundreds of buildings within its embrace, with chimneys smoking gently and slate roofs pointing steeply skyward, all converging around a single high tower at the very center of the town.
The Corsair circled the plane, speaking into a radio for a few moments before beginning his landing approach, dropping down over the plateau and skimming the trees, which thinned just before the wall. They glided low, passing close to one of the guard towers before sweeping down onto a wide stretch of lawn by a cluster of houses.
The Corsair brought the plane to a halt and switched off the engine. In the sudden silence that followed, all Tom could do was sit, his ears ringing, his body trembling.
The Corsair heaved himself up and out of the cockpit. He disappeared from sight underneath the plane, and Tom heard the clang of a door. A moment later the Corsair was setting down Tom’s luggage on the grass beside them.
“What are the buildings just here?” asked Tom as he climbed out.
The Corsair looked up. “Staff quarters. It gives us a bit of space away from the rest of the school.”
As the Corsair swung the door to the hold closed, Tom stared at the town, examining the first of the buildings and the many, many rooftops that spread away toward the single high tower in the middle.
“Is that the school?”
The Corsair followed his gaze to the tower and then shook his head. “No, that’s the Spike. It’s a training center. It’s part of the school—but then, more or less, the whole town is part of the school. Got your trunk? Good. Now follow me.”
And with that the Corsair set off briskly across the lawn, Tom staggering along behind him.
Chapter Eleven THE HOUSE ON HALF MOON STREET
The easiest way for Tom to manage the weight of the trunk was to bend forward and spread its weight across his back—but if he did that, all he could see were the street cobbles. And as they wandered into the town, that was the last thing he wanted to be staring at. All around them were bustling crowds, shops, and cafés, and he was desperate to look at them all.
He craned his neck as they passed Leonardo Conte’s Lock-Pick and Safe-Cracking Emporium and saw the shopkeeper—presumably Leonardo Conte—waving to the Corsair, who returned the greeting with a nod.
An old woman was sitting on a bench outside the Cutting Edge, something silver spinning rapidly between her crooked fingers. “Reinforced steel climbing knives,” she called out. “The best in the business. Designed to take twice the weight of the standard knife. Get them while you can!”
He could see several kids around his own age inside, trying out the knives, weighing them judiciously in cupped hands before throwing them at a wall at the back of the shop, while those around them discussed the results and tried out different models and styles that were lying in display cases nearby.
Next there was Margaux Dupont’s Rope House, which featured an elaborate window display arranged liked a spiderweb, with each strand made from a different rope or wire and with myriad different thicknesses, around a central board that read: ALL YOUR ROPE NEEDS: CLIMBING, HOISTING, HANGING, TRIPPING, TRAPPING, TYING, SWINGING, SUSPENDING—WE’LL GO TO ANY LENGTH TO KEEP YOU DANGLING!
“Close your mouth, Tom,” said the Corsair.
“But who opens a shop in a town full of thieves?” asked Tom in a hoarse whisper.
“Old thieves do. It’s a kind of retirement plan—they come back here and open businesses or join ones that have been in their families for generations. It gives them something to do—and they feel safe. Thieves can make enemies all over the world, Tom, and many like to retire back here where they feel protected. The shops, inns, cafés, and boardinghouses are also staffed by family members who didn’t make it into one of the guild schools. We’re a community like any other, while also being unlike any other.”
Tom was about to ask more, but the shops they were passing grabbed his attention. There was Sybil Hastings’s House of One Thousand Faces, which sold disguises—WIGS, MAKEUP, FACE MASKS, AND COSTUMES, YOUR ONE-STOP SHOP FOR EVERY JOB OR IF YOU’RE JUST LOOKING FOR A CHANGE! Another, Amis and Sons, sold art supplies—ALL YOUR FORGERY ESSENTIALS UNDER ONE ROOF: IF YOU’RE GOING TO FAKE IT, WE CAN HELP YOU MAKE IT. They passed a bookshop, the Grey Library, divided between two vast buildings, with one side featuring a shop front selling school textbooks and the other, what appeared to be a catalog of false identities—CAST-IRON BACKGROUNDS FOR EVERY CON. Tom could only begin to imagine what kind of books might be held in the rest of the library. Then there was Morvenda’s, a shop specializing in explosives—MORE BANG FOR YOUR BUCK THAN ANYWHERE ELSE IN TOWN!—next to the Unblinking Eye, a boutique dedicated to surveillance equipment—WE NEVER MISS A THING SO YOU WON’T EITHER. It went on and on and on.
And everywhere they went there were people. All, Tom realized, dressed in highly tailored black and dark gray outfits with a flash of color somewhere about their person—red, yellow, blue, green, purple, and orange ties, sashes or bows or belts or bands worn fastened around top hats, slung over shoulders, tied around waists, or wrapped around arms.
The Corsair saw Tom staring. “House colors,” he explained, turning down an alleyway. “Artemis House is yellow, Duplicity House is green, Ghost House is red, Janus House is purple, Swindle House is orange. You’ll be presented with your blue Guile House colors when we get to the boardinghouse.”
A thought occurred to Tom. “Er, Corsair… I… I don’t have any money. Is that going to be a problem?”
The Corsair shook his head. “The number of things I keep forgetting to tell you! No, it’s not going to be a problem—because you’re going to work while you’re here. All non-legacy pupils are expected to work part-time jobs. It’s not a requirement so much as a token of giving something back to the town, while also earning some spending money for students that might otherwise have no source of funds—like you. I have already arranged a position for you as a shop assistant at Morgenstern’s Museum of Magic.”
The sun was beginning to fade now, and lights were coming on around town. Tom was staggering under the weight of his trunk, and he wondered if he might not be able to walk any farther when they turned onto a narrow road signposted HALF MOON STREET.
The Corsair spread his arms. “Let me present your new home, Tom…. Welcome to Guile House!”
Tom craned his neck to look up. At the far end of the street, standing detached from the buildings around it, towered a huge five-story house. A wide oak front door inlaid with steel rivets stood at its center, surrounded by brightly lit windows that led the eye up to a pair of crooked turrets and a sweeping roof that rose toward the dimming sky, where smoke puffed gently from rooftop chimneys. He could see figures passing behind the windows on every floor, and the smell of baking bread drifted on the air.
