The School for Thieves, page 14
He followed the group out of the gulley into a small clearing. Ahead of them was a high wall made out of horizontal wooden boards. In some places narrow holes had been hollowed out, while in others small blocks of wood jutted out an inch or two from the boards. Rather incongruously, a little old lady was sitting on a tall stool, like a tennis umpire’s chair, in the middle of the clearing.
“Who’s that?” whispered Tom as he sidled up to the rest of the group.
“Sneaky Susan,” replied Benoît. And then, when Tom looked blank, added with emphasis, “Sneaky Susan,” as if that made it clearer. Still Tom looked blank. “Sneaky Susan Somerville. The Midnight Cat? No? You must have heard about the Midnight Cat and the Great Train Heist of 1902. That’s where she made her name. A legend. What about the Looting of the Louvre in 1910?”
“Never heard of her. Or any of that.”
Benoît looked astonished. “Well, she’s very famous,” he muttered.
“And so why is she sitting on a chair in the middle of the woods?”
“Making sure we don’t cheat on the run, of course.” Benoît looked at Tom like he was an idiot.
“Hurry up,” called Sneaky Susan from her high perch.
The rest of the group were now well advanced on their climb up the wall. Neha and Gina had already disappeared over the other side.
Benoît leaped forward and began to climb, with Tom clambering up just behind him.
So, it’s an obstacle course, thought Tom as he dug his toe into one of the hollows and reached for one of the projecting handholds. Well, if it was just climbing things like this wall, it was still going to be pretty easy….
As he hung from a handhold about halfway up the wall and started to reach for another, there was a low click, and the block of wood he was clinging to dropped free. With a cry, he tumbled to the ground and landed with a thump on his back, the block of wood adding to his indignity by hitting him on the head.
He rolled around on the ground, feeling like he was about to die. There was a thud of feet beside him, and he looked up to see Benoît and Cleo had jumped down beside him, grinning awkwardly.
“Sorry, we probably should have warned you,” said Cleo, helping Benoît pull Tom to his feet. “The handholds can move. And some of them are greased. And some fall off.”
“How… do you… tell?” gasped Tom, struggling for breath.
“You just get a sense for it after a while. You learn to always test them lightly as you climb—and some are just obvious—”
“Haven’t you climbed a Mischief Wall before?” asked Benoît, sounding bemused.
“Of course he hasn’t,” scolded Cleo. “He won’t have even heard of them.” She looked at Tom sympathetically. “We’ve been climbing these things for years at the summer camps. You learn the kind of things to look out for pretty quickly.”
“No slacking!” yelled Sneaky Susan. “Some of us have other places to be.”
“Follow my lead,” said Cleo. “I’ll show you the best way to go.”
Gingerly, still trying to catch his breath, Tom followed them back to the wall. As Cleo began to climb, Tom shadowed her carefully, keeping his eyes fixed on precisely which foot and handholds Cleo used and copying her exactly. Cleo moved with such easy grace, it was almost as if she were simply climbing a ladder, but Tom noticed that she would test and sometimes change her handholds before climbing farther. It was the speed with which she did this, though, that was so impressive.
As they reached the top of the wall and slung their legs over, Tom saw that ropes had been fixed to the other side to help them climb down. He swung on to one and followed Benoît and Cleo back onto the path, where the rest of the group was waiting for them.
“Come on,” cried Michael, “If we don’t hurry up, we’re going to miss breakfast, and I’m starving.”
“Who is this guy?” asked Jaroslav to the group in general. “He’s useless.”
“Sorry,” said Tom, hoping that his churning embarrassment didn’t show on his face.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Cleo, punching him on the arm. “We’ll keep you right from now on, promise.”
They moved off again, running in a tight pack, with Allegra and Neha leading the way.
Cleo and Benoît kept their word and helped Tom as best they could throughout the rest of the run—which involved different obstacles that had to be overcome in different ways. There was a trip-wire maze concealed in a meadow of long grass, then a narrow gully filled with rotating wooden cylinders that had long, truncheon-like lengths of wood jutting out at varying heights and angles. After that there was a wide pit over which a pair of tightropes had been strung across the divide with planks of wood attached between them every few feet, almost as if it had once been a complete bridge that had fallen into disrepair. Tom was shocked to see large metal spikes had been driven into the ground at the base of the pit.
“Don’t worry,” said Genevieve, seeing his look of horror. “They’re made of rubber. They don’t put real ones in until you’re an Initiate. If you fall in there today, the worst that will happen is a broken leg.”
Tom was hardly reassured.
Crossing the pit was a test of nerve as much as it was about dexterity and balance—and Tom only just managed to get across, while the others seemed to skip over it with ease.
With barely a pause for breath, they set off again, following the path as it ran along a high ridge that gave them a glorious view out over the valley and across to two nearby peaks where spectacular waterfalls cascaded to the river below. Through the mist that billowed up from the base of the waterfalls, Tom caught sight of a dark stone tower built right on the edge of the riverbank, with part of its curved wall disappearing into the frothing water. It had a pointed roof that bowed skyward and a chimney that looked like it was puffing smoke, although Tom wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing smoke or just the water mist.
“What’s that down there?” he panted.
“Oh, that’s one of the watchtowers,” Genevieve said dismissively. “They’re dotted every few miles down the river and all over the mountains around here. The guards there keep a lookout for outsiders. It’s part of the town’s defenses.”
Tom wanted to know more, but the track was wending its way up a steep incline, and he didn’t have the energy to talk any further. The pupils were all breathing hard as they neared the top of the climb, sweat glistening on their brows and misting around their heads in the cool morning air. They came to a ridge at the top and could see the town below them on the other side.
“Nearly there,” called Jaroslav, at the head of the pack. “Everyone stick together, and we’ll make it to breakfast in good time.”
The run down the hill was an easy relief after the steep climb, but as Tom was beginning to expect, there were still some surprises. Every now and then one of them would trip a pressure pad hidden beneath the carpet of pine needles that scattered the path and a net would be fired out from the trees on either side or would drop down from above. Tom was completely entangled in one and was sent rolling down the hill in a chaotic ball of flailing arms and legs and had to be helped free while trying to ignore the dark looks and curses Jaroslav and Zhu shot in his direction. From then on everyone was on high alert for the pressure pads and shouted warnings as they ran. They made it to the bottom of the hill without any further incident and were clapped in by Master Bautista.
“Not bad, not bad,” he cried. “Not your best time this term, but not bad. Go get yourselves washed and fed.”
They continued running in a tight group, through the Grey Gate and back up through the town to Half Moon Street.
When they got to Guile House, they hived off down a path to the right of the building and then down a set of stairs to a basement level that Tom hadn’t seen before. They pushed their way through a heavy oak door and into a warm, low-ceilinged room full of wooden lockers. Huge brass pipes snaked across the walls and disappeared into the ceiling.
“Boot room,” Michael told Tom, kicking off his own as if in explanation. “You’ll have a locker here somewhere with your name on it.”
Tom peered around the dozens of lockers. Eventually he found his name, etched onto a brass plaque, just like all the other pupils.
He watched his fellow Tenderfoots shoving in their boots to dry and then tearing upstairs to get washed. He kicked off his own muddy boots and followed suit.
The group split apart as they hurtled up the winding staircase. When Tom reached his room, he pulled off his sweaty clothes, folded them, and laid them on the chair by the desk, unsure of what to do with them. He was about to begin washing himself at the sink—but not before he had examined the large welt on his chest and the lump on his head sustained during the run—when he heard the thump of footfalls outside.
Enzo and Jericho were covered from head to toe in mud, and Enzo had a twig sticking out of his hair.
“Ah, you made it back!” said Jericho cheerfully. “How was your first run?”
“Eventful,” said Tom, “but I’m guessing not as eventful as yours.”
“Yeah, it was a tough one today,” said Enzo. “I can’t wait for a shower.”
“There are showers?”
“Of course there are showers!” said Jericho, heading to his room. “In the north tower. Give us a minute and we’ll show you.”
* * *
Standing below a wide brass showerhead, Tom turned a tap and water began to gush out—powerful, steaming hot, utterly wonderful. He could have stayed in there all day—except his stomach was rumbling and all he could think about was breakfast. He also knew that they were still up against the clock, so he toweled himself off quickly and then emerged back out into the bathroom, which was filling up with other boys from their corridor all desperate to get washed and downstairs for breakfast.
Enzo once again riffled through Tom’s wardrobe and drawers and threw the clothes he needed for the day onto the bed before retreating to his own room to dress.
Jericho was waiting for them when they were ready, and the three boys thundered down to the dining hall.
The Corsair held up his watch and tapped it pointedly when he saw them.
The boys grabbed slices of buttered toast, mugs of cocoa, and bowls of porridge before sliding onto the benches at one of the tables. As they began to wolf down the food, the Corsair approached looking apologetic. “I’ve not given you your timetable yet, have I?” he said. “Been rather distracted by things since I got back.”
“That’s all right,” said Tom, before quickly adding, “sir,” which made the Corsair smile and give Tom an approving wink. “Oh, I also don’t have my house colors yet.”
“Ah, mon Dieu. Of course. I’ll get this all sorted for you by lunchtime. Miss Wolf, will you make sure Mr. Morgan here gets to all his morning lessons today, please? Show him around.”
Genevieve, who was sitting with Allegra and Zhu just a few spaces down the table, gave a little nod and a wave.
The Corsair rapped his fist on the table, loudly declaring that everyone had to get to class.
Tom headed back upstairs with Enzo and Jericho. He collected a notebook from his bookshelf and a pen from his desk and then met Genevieve in the main hall, where she was waiting for him with all the other Tenderfoots.
Outside, the streets were now teeming with people. The sun shone in a clear blue sky, but its warmth was countered by a chill wind. “You’ll get used to it,” said Allegra, noticing Tom give a little shiver. “It’s always cold in the mountains at this time of year.”
“Aye, and it gets worse,” said Angus. “The winters can be brutal up here.”
They turned into a cobbled courtyard strung with ivy and headed for the large door of the central building.
“This is the financial scams department,” explained Benoît. “We have double accountancy swindles this morning.” He rolled his eyes and made a snoring noise.
“Just try to keep awake,” said Zhu.
Benoît and Zhu’s warnings echoed those Jericho had given him the night before. But as it turned out, Tom had no trouble keeping awake during the class—no trouble at all.
They sat in a wood-paneled lecture theater with three rows of desks shaped in a crescent and spread over tiers that looked down on two huge blackboards and a lectern from where Mistress Fox, Jericho’s mother, gave a lesson on the career of Victor Lustig.
Tom was amused to see that she and Jericho shared the same dark hair, shape of nose, and a slight crinkle around the eyes. The rest of Mistress Fox’s face was more angular, and she had a severe air that was in direct contrast to Jericho’s easygoing manner, commanding silence from her pupils from the moment they entered the room.
Victor Lustig, Tom learned, had been the head prefect of Artemis House during his final year and had gone on to have a remarkable career. He had run cons from Constantinople to Chicago, making a fortune. His most audacious scam had been selling the Eiffel Tower for scrap—not once, but twice. The first incarnation of this con had been a huge success, but the second attempt had landed him in Alcatraz prison near San Francisco.
“The first Eiffel Tower job was a masterful con,” said Mistress Fox, her expression stony. “Lustig was the talk of the Shadow League. There were suggestions of a prize that might be named after him here at Beaufort’s, talk of a wing of Artemis House retitled in his honor and a seat, in due course, on the League Directorate. But he was greedy.” She shook her head and looked a little disgusted. “If there is one lesson to take away from this class, let it be this. If you ever get away with a scam as audacious as Lustig’s, pat yourself on the back and enjoy the fame, accolades, and wealth that come your way. But never, ever repeat the same scam.” She hammered her fist on the lectern. “I believe that the League is going to break him out soon, so you may see a story about it in the Argus in a few weeks’ time. We shall see.”
Somewhere in the distance, the bell on the Spike began to toll. The students gathered up their books.
“I want an essay profiling Lustig, his career, and details of the Eiffel Tower con on my desk by Friday,” called Mistress Fox over the noise. “Three sides of paper minimum—and I want normal-sized writing, none of that huge calligraphy you’re so fond of, Mr. Schweik. I’ll see you all next week.”
Tom turned to Benoît as they bustled out of the financial scams department, into streets crowded with pupils heading for their next class. “I thought that was great—it wasn’t boring at all.”
“Yeah, it was all right today,” admitted Benoît with a shrug. “But just you wait until we get to some of the more complex accountancy schemes. It feels like your brain is going to melt and dribble out your nose.” He pulled a slack-jawed face and used his fingers to mime cerebral matter slopping from his nostrils. Tom chuckled. These Tenderfoot kids all reminded him a little of Bernie and Maxine. He felt a guilty lurch in his stomach.
Escape and evasion with Master Pemberley was next. They arrived at a large, three-story building on the corner of Turpin Street and Bandit’s Way. Above the high-arched double doors were the words SEMPER PARATUS in gold ornamental type.
“It means ‘always ready,’ ” said Gina when Tom asked. She put on an exaggeratedly posh voice. “Plan for every eventuality. Keep your eyes peeled at all times for dangers and, even more important, for ways to escape. Do your homework. Semper paratus.”
Tom was surprised by how large the classroom was. It looked like a banqueting hall from a theater performance, with a fireplace at the center of the rear wall, a paneled door in the wall to their left, French doors and three windows in the wall to their right, and a garden painted onto boards beyond to create the illusion of the outside world.
Around the banqueting table were seated ten mannequins in black tie and evening dresses. A glittering chandelier hung overhead. Looking up, Tom could see various beams and rails in the ceiling space above, just like a stage in a theater.
The Tenderfoots took their seats at the desks arranged at the back of the room, pens in hand and notebooks opened. There was silence as they stared around.
“What are we meant to be looking for?” whispered Tom to Michael.
“Pemberley,” whispered back Michael. “He likes to hide. It’s… Oh, spotted him!”
Tom couldn’t see the teacher anywhere. He looked around and saw that everyone else had suddenly relaxed. Clearly they too had identified where Pemberley was hiding.
All of a sudden, one of the mannequins winked at him.
Tom couldn’t help laughing. The makeup was exceptional. Waxy skin, a wig tipped at a slight angle, an unnatural blush added to the lips and cheeks.
Pemberley stood and waved away the little round of applause.
“Welcome, welcome!” he cried. He dug his nails just beneath his jawline and carefully peeled back a waxy film from his skin, gave his face a little wipe with a silk handkerchief, and then pulled a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and slid them onto the end of his aquiline nose.
“Now, are you all seated comfortably?” He spread his arms wide like a great eagle. “Welcome to Tutthill Manor, the seat of the third Viscount Vellacott. There he is, at the head of the table.”
He pointed to a mannequin dressed in tails with a bright red sash. A cushion had been added beneath his shirt to imitate a paunch, and a monocle, a gray walrus moustache, and a wreath of gray hair decorated the mannequin’s head.
“At the other end of the table is his wife, Lady Charlotte Vellacott.”
The mannequin by the garden doors was dressed in a silvery sequined gown and adorned with a huge diamond necklace, a sparkling bracelet on each wrist, and several chunky rings with various colored stones. A bejeweled tiara was visible in her gray hair.
“At the fireside end of the table, we have, from left to right, Lady Hermione Sturridge, Lady Constance Walpol, and Captain Fabien Brunet. And, of course, the place where I was sitting, between Lady Hermione and Lady Constance.”
