The School for Thieves, page 24
“You don’t mean to test the gas on that horse?” exclaimed von Blankenburg, the Prussian foreign minister.
“Oh, do sit down, Wilhelm,” said French Foreign Minister André peevishly. “It’s just a bloody horse.”
“But it’s magnificent! If you had ever had a horse carry you to war and bring you safe through it, you wouldn’t put one out to slaughter like this. Have that horse removed at once. If it is no good to you, I will take it.”
“But Herr von Blankenburg,” stammered Chaudat. “How are we to demonstrate the effects of the gas?”
“Indeed,” said André. “Your soft heart will make this enterprise a complete waste of time…. I should have known.”
The Prussian bristled. “Lieutenant Darie,” he said. “Take that horse back outside at once. I have a better idea.”
As von Blankenburg strode from the ballroom, Darie gazed fearfully at the canister still inserted into the glass panel. Chaudat carefully unscrewed the canister and returned it to the case, alongside two spares, closing it securely. Looking relieved, Darie opened the door to the box, quickly untied the horse, and led it back outside to the veranda.
Von Blankenburg returned to the ballroom. Much to the surprise of the other delegates, he was leading a young girl by the wrist. Up in the cupola, Tom stiffened. He recognized the girl from the mission file. It was the Spy student, Sara Mallory.
“A stroke of luck,” von Blankenburg declared. “I found just the thing I was looking for right outside.”
“Who is she?” asked André.
“Some servant,” said von Blankenburg dismissively. “Much better than sacrificing that fine animal. Unless there are any soft-hearted objections?”
“I—I don’t understand…,” said Mallory, trying to wrest her hand free from von Blankenburg’s grasp. “I’m needed elsewhere, sir, please….”
Von Blankenburg jerked his arm so that she lost her balance and was dragged the last few feet toward the open door to the box. He flung her inside and then stepped back, drawing a pistol from the holster on his belt and pointing it between her eyes.
“Stay exactly where you are,” he said quietly. “Don’t move a muscle—or I’ll put a bullet in your skull.”
Von Blankenburg’s tone reminded Tom eerily of the way the Pitbull would speak to inmates before he began to torture them. The scar beneath his ribs prickled.
With the pistol still trained steadily on Mallory’s face, von Blankenburg closed and secured the door.
Tom didn’t know for sure what was about to happen, but he had a good idea. It was diabolical. Monstrous. He wondered if the men below could hear his heart beating. How could they not? It was like cannon fire against his chest. Thoughts rushed through his mind, fogging his decision-making.
Von Blankenburg looked pointedly at Chaudat. “Commandant, proceed.”
* * *
“There has been… a development…,” said the wavering voice of Goldblatt over the Shadow League wireless network.
* * *
Tom knew the rules of the International Shadow Cup. His team could not interfere with the actions of other students. They could not acknowledge that they knew one another. They had to remain hidden, secret, unknown. Their first priority was to complete their mission. But Tom had seen the effects of the Crimson Flu, and it had been the most horrific experience of his life. Imagine the very worst moment of the most hideous case you have ever seen. Imagine that tenfold. And imagine it occurring within moments of the gas permeating the lungs of an enemy soldier….
Mallory was in real trouble.
Tom’s thoughts rifled frantically through everything he had learned that year at Thieves School. None of it was of any use here. Morris, however… Morris had taught him well. Cup and ball tricks. Hooks to steal handbags. “Well, look at that heron over there….”
Tom’s hands flickered urgently at his teammates. At the window, Modiba looked startled, but he nodded. Behind the cabinet, so did Featherstone. They would have one shot at this. It would require precision timing and dexterity. There could be no errors.
Commandant Chaudat carefully reached for the clasps on the briefcase again. Outside, the howling wind covered the sound of Modiba’s climbing knife as it whisked through the air and nicked the left flank of the horse out on the veranda—but it didn’t cover the shriek of fright and pain from the animal.
The horse reared up and bucked forward, its front hooves smashing through the French windows, sending glass scattering across the ballroom floor. The French windows burst open, snow spinning in around the bellowing creature. The delegates were on their feet, chairs tipping over as they backed away, cries of alarm filling the ballroom. For a moment or two, all eyes were directed at the horse as Darie scrabbled for its bit.
The Thieves struck.
Their actions were synchronized as if to a metronomic beat. Tom lowered the grappling hook and held his breath as it swung back and forth toward the handle of the case. After what felt like an eternity, the claws dug under the handle, and he carefully began to pull it up. My goodness, it’s heavy, he thought, forcing himself not to grunt with the effort as he winched it up, trying not to imagine what might happen if he dropped it and the canisters broke.
Behind the cabinet, Featherstone silently disarmed the suit of armor. She slipped the replica case over the tip of the pike and then tilted it out to drop it on the table in place of the case Tom was hoisting toward the ceiling. It made a deep thunk as it landed, but in the chaos no one noticed.
Tom froze. The replica had been placed the wrong way around.
Chaudat was already turning back to the table. He looked curiously at the case. Tom stared, unblinking, barely breathing.
There was a loud whinny from the horse as Darie and Babault finally wrestled it back through the shattered French windows. Chaudat glanced up, then returned his attention to the case. He cautiously spun it around and opened it.
Inside were three metal canisters, just as expected.
“Is this farce going to continue any longer, Pierre, or are we going to see the weapon in action?” frothed von Blankenburg.
“My apologies, Wilhelm,” replied André through a tight-lipped smile. “Of course.”
Chaudat delicately fitted a canister to the panel in the soundproofed box once again. On the other side of the glass, Mallory stared back at him, her chest heaving, her eyes wild. She thumped her fists on the glass and silently screamed.
The commandant looked up. “We are ready, Foreign Minister.”
The men at the table all leaned forward, anticipation and intrigue bright in their eyes.
“Proceed,” said André.
Chaudat, his gaze averted from the sobbing girl just inches away from him, pressed a button on the panel.
For a moment the world appeared to freeze.
The ticking of a fob watch seemed to fill the air more deafeningly than the howl of the wind through the broken doors or the muted cries of the unfortunate lab rat in the box. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Still the girl beat and clawed at the glass, tears streaming down her cheeks. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The Prussian diplomat plucked the watch from his pocket. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Beside him, his French counterpart shifted uneasily in his chair.
“There is a problem?” asked von Blankenburg.
Chaudat flicked the switch a couple of times. He unscrewed the canister and tried again with another one from the case. This too failed to release the gas into the glass box.
Mallory was now curled on the floor, her sobbing inaudible.
“There may be a problem with the release mechanism—” began Chaudat.
“Try the final canister!” snapped André.
Chaudat did. To the same effect.
“You bring us all the way here for a demonstration of your new secret weapon and you can’t get the stupid thing to work?” asked von Blankenburg coldly. “You are not trying to deceive us, I hope.”
“Of course not, of course not!” cried André. “It is just a little technical malfunction. We will fix it in no time.” He glared pointedly at Chaudat. “We will try again tomorrow. In the meantime, we have some of the emperor’s favorite wines to enjoy and a gastronomic treat in store. Please”—he held out his arm toward the door—“this way.”
As the delegates rose from the table and began to make their way back to the dining room, André sidled up to Chaudat. “You better get this working, Commandant,” he whispered venomously, “or there will be hell to pay.” He glanced at the forlorn heap on the floor of the box. “And for god’s sake, get that child out of there.”
Confused, Chaudat unscrewed the canister and returned it to the case. Then he turned to Lieutenant Darie, who was trying to sweep up some of the broken glass with his boot. “Get her to bed,” he said, indicating Mallory. “No harm done.”
Commandant Chaudat wasn’t to know that this would be the last time that he—or anyone else in the castle—would set eyes on Sara Mallory. Seventy-three seconds after Lieutenant Darie locked her in a room on the third floor of the east wing, she had picked the lock on the window, shimmied down a drainpipe, and made contact with Agent Goldblatt in the courtyard. Together they rappelled down the outer walls of the castle and escaped into the forest—but not before they caught sight of three students from Thieves School squeezing their way out of a drainage outlet. Tom, carrying the case, was the only one who saw Mallory. They exchanged a little wave before they were all lost from sight among the trees.
Chapter Twenty-Two ESCAPING THE MOUNTAIN
Now that the Thieves had achieved their objective, the next stage in the International Shadow Cup clicked into motion: to get the case safely back into League hands. With it being so heavy, the team had come up with a relay system to transport it as quickly and efficiently as they could down the mountain.
Torres and Kelso had gone ahead to roughly designated marker points. Tom, Modiba, and Featherstone retrieved their snow gear and skis from the hiding place beneath the fir tree and dressed at top speed. Modiba heaved up the case and set off, with Featherstone and Tom following soon after.
Skiing was significantly quicker than walking, although there were many more risks involved. But Kelso and Torres had already scouted a route down through the forest, marking a path by splashing small daubs of luminous paint on the trees.
Tom navigated his way down the slope, sometimes following the marks on the trees, sometimes following the tracks of his teammates’ skis. His face stung with the snow and the wind and he had to wipe his goggles incessantly, only just managing to keep up.
It wasn’t long before Modiba began struggling with the weight of the case, which kept threatening to unbalance him as he made tight turns between the trees. After a while he collapsed into the snow, sucking in huge mouthfuls of air.
“Give it here,” demanded Featherstone, sliding to a halt beside him.
Modiba handed over the case. “I’ll catch up,” he said breathlessly, waving them on.
Tom’s legs felt like jelly. His chest heaved, and he could feel the sweat slicking his skin under his thick clothes. How on earth was Featherstone skiing so quickly?
As Tom and Featherstone flew over a snow-covered boulder, Featherstone almost collided with a figure waiting below, and she went tumbling into the snow, swearing loudly. With their snow gear and goggles on, it was impossible to tell whether it was Kelso or Torres, but they quickly lurched over to retrieve the case, clipped on their skis, and sped off without a backward glance.
“Keep going, Bile boy,” Featherstone gasped at Tom. “Modiba and I will see you at the bottom.”
It wasn’t long before Tom caught a glimpse of two headlamps through the trees in front of him as the case was exchanged again. He feared his legs would seize up if he stopped, so he plowed on. Despite his own groans of exertion and the panting of his breath, he soon heard the swish of skis behind him.
“Nearly there,” called Featherstone as she and Modiba passed him.
Tom pushed on. They had to be near the bottom of the mountain. They had to be…
The forest was growing thinner now, and there was more scope for long, sweeping runs between the trees. Tom could see Featherstone’s and Modiba’s headlamps following whoever now had the case. A little farther ahead, another stationary headlamp waited for them. His vision clouding at the edges with exhaustion, Tom skidded to a halt—and looked into the beaming faces of his four Artemis teammates. He felt a little better seeing how heavily Featherstone, Modiba, and Torres were breathing.
“Took your time,” said Kelso with a chortle.
The others were too tired to offer a comeback.
“Let’s get out of here.” Kelso looked gleeful despite the weight of the case in his hand. “Can you imagine what it’s like at Beaufort’s right now? They’ll be going crazy!”
The lower slopes of the mountain eased in gradient, treeless and smooth. Tom felt as if he could sleep standing up as he followed the others down. Up above, the clouds parted at last and a brilliant moon shone down upon them, lighting the landscape in silver.
* * *
“Breaking news,” said Reginald Hodge over the Guile House radio. “We have confirmation that the Thieves have delivered their package. Meanwhile, we have reports from Agent Moonshine that there are no suspicions in the castle about the substituted cases. So while this year’s title is still to be officially confirmed, your champions-in-waiting are… BEAUFORT’S SCHOOL FOR DECEPTIVE ARTS!”
In the Guile House common room, there was an explosion of cheering and clapping. For a full year, they would be able to bask in the reflected glory—even if they had to put up with all the Artemis House students boasting about it. It was a magnificent feeling.
“That’s bloody brilliant,” sighed Maxine after doing a victory lap of the room, bear-hugging everyone she passed. “Gosh, I’m exhausted.”
“But we’re not going to bed!” cried Hercule Wolf. “We haven’t won the Shadow Cup for years. Even if we owe Arthritis for this”—there was a loud pantomime groan—“we’re going to have a party!”
And once again the room exploded into a cacophony of cheers.
Chapter Twenty-Three FOLLOW THE BREADCRUMBS
Tom breathed in the familiar smell of his room in Guile House and rolled over in bed, his limbs still aching from his exertions on the mountain.
The airship had returned the triumphant Apprentices and teachers to a wild reception the previous afternoon, the Master of Artemis House, Leopold Fabergé, almost beside himself with glee. Modiba, Featherstone, Kelso, Torres, and McGinley were officially the 103rd International Shadow League Cup champions. Their names would go down in school legend and they would be offered the very best career paths after graduation.
The Corsair had said very little to Tom other than a quiet “Well done, my boy. Didn’t I say you had potential?”
Sadie McGinley had been suitably bashful amid the celebrations, offering Tom a pat on the back in thanks for everything he’d done. He knew it wasn’t possible for her—or any of the other champions—to be any more effusive, but he didn’t need them to be. He was just happy to have made it off the mountain in one piece and to have helped save Sara Mallory’s life. All he really hoped was that his involvement would remain a secret. Who knew how the Department of Criminal Education would react if they learned the truth? Would he be hung from the Traitor’s Wall, have his mind scrambled, or be sent to the Penumbra?
In any case, any remote sense of self-importance he might have been secretly harboring was immediately trampled by Cassidy, who was passing through the Guile House entrance hall just as he pushed his way through the front door.
“The servant boy is back,” she shouted toward the common room. “Goodness, you look dreadful,” she added. “Must have been hard work crawling around after those Arthritis ar—” She broke off as the Corsair appeared behind Tom. “Oh, welcome back, sir,” she said with a simpering smile.
Tom soon forgot all about Cassidy as Maxine, Jericho, and Enzo dashed through from their place by the fire to see him and to hear all about it. But all Tom said was “It was nothing very exciting. I’ll tell you about it—but not right now. I have to go to bed.” And with that he’d hauled himself upstairs to his room and collapsed on his bed, fully clothed, and fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
The sun shone down on the trees around the school two days later, a light wind rippling the pines and casting their scent across town. There were no lessons that day. Instead, the whole school would be watching the newly released reel from the Shadow Cup. It was a chance to relive the glory of victory before the official ceremony that would see the Shadow League Directorate crown Beaufort’s as International Shadow Cup champions—an occasion that was particularly special as it was one of the very few occasions when all four members of the Directorate gathered in public together. Beaufort’s was abuzz at the idea of seeing the most powerful members of the League up close.
In the Grey Keep, the classrooms where Katherine Sydow taught identity theft, confidence scams, and smuggling, the Guile House Tenderfoots were all a babble, throwing paper planes, play wrestling, and laughing uproariously. Mistress Sydow strode in, clapped her hands sharply for silence, and smoothly ducked under a flying paper plane. Behind her, an assistant followed with a reel of film and a gramophone record.
Sydow placed her satchel on the desk, clicked open the clasps, and began to hand out booklets to each pupil, which contained printed photographs, maps, and an annotated timeline from the International Shadow Cup challenge, while the assistant fit the reel to a projector and then put the record on a gramophone in the corner. Sydow lowered the blinds and stood beside the projector.
