The School for Thieves, page 25
“Notebooks out,” she commanded. “I know you’re all looking forward to watching the film, but please bear in mind that I want you to take thorough notes. This film and the booklets should provide all the necessary information you will need for your reports.”
There was a crackle on the record, and then a spindly violin began to play while the dark image on the screen popped for a moment and then started to lighten. “Welcome to the hundred and third International Shadow Cup…,” said the smooth tones of Reginald Hodge. The picture on the screen was very poor, dark, and pocked with snowfall. But it was possible to make out five figures climbing through a steep forest.
Tom had to tuck his hands under his desk to hide the fact they were shaking. What if someone recognized him? But the figures were distant, and the footage was both grainy and jumpy.
Watching the film made him feel like he was right back there on the mountainside with the Arthritis Apprentices, or—a few minutes later—inside the castle with all the other competitors, the oblivious French and Prussian delegations, and the castle staff. Agent Goldblatt’s camera had been able to capture only a very narrow portion of the ballroom, but it was enough to show the case being lifted from the table and switched with the fake, saving Sara Mallory’s life and winning Beaufort’s the cup.
Just below the sound of the commentary there was the scratch, scratch of pens scribbling furiously as the Tenderfoots took notes, utterly absorbed in the action. Tom just watched the film, mesmerized, his pen lying still on his desk.
The film cut to Master Ritter’s footage of the transfer of the case down the mountain and the Artemis Apprentices’ escape. Much of Ritter’s footage had clearly been so poor that the editors had cut it from the final film, only keeping in the relay exchange of the case from student to student. But there was enough still to give the viewers a rush of adrenaline as the escaping students slalomed in and out through the trees. There was a mocking cheer as the two Artemis Apprentices nearly crashed into each other and great delight that Ritter had managed to capture it on film. Mistress Sydow allowed several long moments of raucous laughter before shushing them into silence again as the next exchange of the case flickered onto the screen.
A small frown puckered Tom’s brow. Was there something wrong with what he had just watched? But as quickly as it had arrived, the thought disappeared.
Ritter’s footage was clearer now as the forest thinned and the slopes of the mountain opened up. There was one final exchange of the case, and then an easy run for Freddie Kelso down to a vehicle waiting on the valley road.
The images faded to black, and a white cursive script filled the screen with the word “fin.” In perfect synchronicity, the record on the gramophone came to an end.
There was a smatter of begrudging applause.
“The full film will be available for review in the Grey Library,” said Sydow, “along with further photographs, maps, and the unabridged radio recording. There will be an essay due on it early next year, when you become second-grade Greenhorns.”
There was a groan at this. Who wanted to write an essay about Artemis House? Tom wondered how he was going to write anything without giving his own bird’s-eye view away.
Sydow gave a crooked grin. “But I think that will do for today,” she said. “I hope you enjoy yourselves at the ceremony.”
* * *
The streets were busy. The cable car had been running for hours on end, ferrying Artemis House family members and proud alumni from the valley station to the town beneath the canopy of the forest. Dirigibles and small airships had been arriving all morning with the VIP guests and—so Tom overheard from an excited group of passing Fledglings—the four members of the Directorate, who were all now gathered in the Spike with Templeton.
The Tenderfoots navigated their way through the bustling crowds back to Half Moon Street, to drop off their bags and collect the top hats and dress coats they were expected to wear to the ceremony.
The Corsair made his customary inspections. Satisfied, he strode to the head of the line, raised his face for a moment to the beautiful bluebell sky, then flashed them all an apologetic grin. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
The Tenderfoots marched to the square beside the Greenhorns. Enzo, Jericho, and Karl were almost in line with Tom; just ahead of them were Dorling, Blister, and Wormwood. Tom couldn’t see Hoffmann. Had he decided to skip the ceremony? Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as everyone made out.
Before a long stage set in front of the Spike, the students arranged themselves on benches by house and in year order, with Tenderfoots in the front row and Apprentices at the rear. Once they were seated, the Corsair joined Pemberley and the other faculty members on a tiered viewing platform.
If Tom had thought the square had been busy at the announcement of the International Shadow Cup challenge, it was nothing compared to this. Crowds of onlookers crammed in behind the school benches, jostling for space. Others squeezed together at the open windows of the surrounding buildings. Some hardier souls had even taken up vantage points on the tiled rooftops. It was the first time that Tom had really gotten a sense of the astonishing size of the League. And these were just the families associated with Beaufort’s.
Settled on the bench between Neha and Genevieve, Tom looked across the square to another elevated viewing area, made of three raised tiers of seating—and recognized a face at the far left of the back row. It was Vincent Crowe. Just beside him, looking gravely at the stage, were Lysander and Anushka Hoffmann. Matthias was sitting with them.
“They’re here!” someone squealed nearby. “The Directorate are here!”
The cry was taken up by many more voices. “They’re here! They’re here! Look, they’re here!”
A procession of black-clad and hooded figures—guards, Tom presumed—spilled from the doors of the Spike. Siegfried Templeton followed, his chest puffed out, his chin held high, the very picture of pride. Behind Templeton, dressed in shimmering gray robes, came what Tom could only suppose were the Shadow League Directorate. There were four of them—one from each of the League’s guilds. Two men, two women. Their faces were impassive, but their eyes were watchful, like birds of prey.
“It’s Rudyard Fisk!” he heard someone murmur nearby. “He’s a legendary Thief!”
“Yeah! And there’s Lavinia Reeve from the Spies,” said someone else. “I never thought I’d ever get to see her in real life!”
“And Politico Francis Hare… and there’s Kat Wicker the Assassin! My goodness, the things she’s done!”
Templeton was carrying the case that had been taken from Rugersburg Castle, while at the rear of the procession, four guards were heaving a large wooden chest. This, Tom guessed, held the thousand gold coins promised to the champion team. He had only ever imagined such wealth in his wildest dreams—and here it was just a sideshow to the prestige of winning the International Shadow Cup. What had the Corsair called it? A token. For the first time he wished he could publicly share some part in Artemis House’s triumph, imagining what he could do to help his friends back in London if he had that kind of money.
The Directorate took their places in a row of high-backed chairs, just before a low dais at the center of the platform. The guards took up vigil behind them, staring over the crowd that had now settled into silence.
Templeton’s long gray coat flapped in the wind.
“Welcome, guests, pupils, and exalted dignitaries,” he began, his voice deep and sonorous. “Welcome to Beaufort’s School for Deceptive Arts.”
A great tumult of applause, cheers, and stomping feet filled the square.
Tom’s gaze drifted back to Crowe and the Hoffmanns. All four were sitting still, hands folded on their laps, expressions blank.
“The one hundred and third International Shadow Cup marks a new chapter in Beaufort’s long and glorious history,” continued Templeton.
As the headmaster began to pick through a few of his personal highlights, Tom’s attention snagged on something.
Had the Artemis Apprentices’ task been strangely easy?
They had to steal a case from a safe in a known location and replace it with a fake. The cup was supposed to be an elite test for burgeoning Shadows. Tom had faced harder challenges on an average day on the streets. The Prussians’ insistence on a demonstration of the weapon had added the only real complication.
His skin prickled.
“The most impressive aspect of all, of course,” boomed Templeton, “was the adaptability our Artemis Apprentices showed when they were forced to improvise. That is a mark of their intelligence and skill and a testament to the years of first-class tutelage they have enjoyed at this school.”
There was another round of wild applause.
“And despite the danger and the difficulty of the situation,” continued Templeton, “they still completed the job, obtaining this case….”
He nodded to one of the guards, who walked forward and placed the stolen case on the dais. Seeing it again suddenly made Tom think of Jessica Chaffinch. How strange. Why was that?
Of course! He and the Corsair had seen her working on the replica. She said she’d been working on it for Lysander Hoffmann, who worked for the Department of Criminal Education. Well, that was an old mystery solved.
Tom’s brow furrowed. But there had been two cases.
“I particularly enjoyed the escape down the mountain, of course,” said Templeton. “How wonderful it is that we are now able to relive these moments on film. When I was an Apprentice competing in the Shadow Cup, we made a daring attack on a castle in the Bavarian Alps. We stormed the battlements by flying a hot-air balloon overhead and then lowered ourselves down on ropes. It would have been quite the spectacle to treasure if we had had cameras back then like we do now,” he added wistfully.
And that was the other thing that had been bothering Tom. The ski down the mountain. Something about it had jarred with him when he’d watched the film. What was it?
The answer hit him like a punch to the head. There had been five of them involved in the castle heist, yet there had been six people on the mountainside during the escape. He had been so exhausted and the ski so taxing, he’d missed it.
He re-created the escape in his head. Buhle Modiba had given the case to Lucy Featherstone. Featherstone had then nearly crashed at the next handover. There should have been just one more handover after that—but there had been two.
When the class had cheered at Featherstone’s near collision in the film, Tom had recognized something. It was only now that he realized what it was. The figure waiting for them had walked with a slight limp. Someone with an injured leg but who was still fit and able enough to ski through the forest.
Matthias Hoffmann.
Matthias Hoffmann had inserted himself into the case transfer. Why?
But then, like a magic trick being revealed, it all became so obvious. Just like a piece of street magic, it had been a sleight-of-hand move. Matthias Hoffmann had swapped the case for the second duplicate that Jessica Chaffinch had made for his father.
Thoughts now tumbled through Tom’s mind like a river in spate.
Lysander Hoffmann in Templeton’s office, furious that Matthias was being sidelined, insisting that his son get extra help to get fit. Matthias had worked hard, gained muscle, put in hours of extra training. Tom had seen him out practicing his skiing. That was why his father had been so outraged by his leg injury at the start of the year—it might have put the whole plan in jeopardy.
So Lysander Hoffmann was in on it. But what was it? A ruse to embarrass Beaufort’s? The headmaster was about to present the case to the Directorate. If it was empty, it would bring great shame on the school—and Templeton would no doubt have to shoulder responsibility.
Tom couldn’t make it add up. It all seemed too petty. To go to all that effort just to get Templeton fired?
Then another thought occurred.
What if the case wasn’t empty?
It was as if he were back in the first escape and evasion class he’d had with Pemberley. The breadcrumbs are there, Tom. Follow them….
Tom looked around at the crowds. Stared back at the stage, at the four members of the Directorate. All in public—together.
He felt his heart skip a beat.
Crowe wanted the League to run the world, instead of answering to the three empires. The Directorate opposed him at every turn. Had he put this plan in motion to get rid of them? Once Silverman and Chaffinch had served their purpose, had he eliminated them, too?
An image suddenly flashed through his mind, of the Corsair fiddling with one of the replica cases at Jessica Chaffinch’s and the canisters inside spraying him with misty water vapor. The canisters stolen from the castle had contained a weaponized pathogen from the French Ministry of War. Silverman had photographed papers from the French ambassador’s safe that had come from a military scientific research section. At last Tom saw the connection.
He saw something else, too. The duplicate case held booby-trapped canisters containing the same pathogen, ready to be sprayed in the faces of the Directorate when they opened it. It would look like a terrible accident: the canisters had been damaged in the escape. Templeton might even be accused of tampering with them. Chaffinch and Silverman were dead, and no one would know any better.
Except Tom.
* * *
No one noticed the small, thin figure of Tom Morgan flitting across the space between the seated students and the platform and clambering up. It was only when he shoved Siegfried Templeton aside and sent the surprised headmaster toppling from the platform that anyone took any heed of what was happening. The boy was shouting and waving his arms and lunging at the dais when he was grabbed by a guard.
The whole thing happened in seconds. The members of the Directorate were barely even aware of the intrusion. Which was why Rudyard Fisk, the Grand High Thief, didn’t hesitate in opening the case.
Chapter Twenty-Four FLIGHT OF THE CROWE
The Grand High Thief lifted the lid of the case, and every member of the Directorate leaned in to inspect its contents.
A great plume of gas erupted from the canisters within, spraying them all.
At first there was just a look of confusion on their faces. Then, as the gas entered their lungs, they each emitted a high, animal scream.
The sound was suddenly cut short, replaced by a desperate burbling as the Directorate reeled back, clutching their throats, trying to breathe. Around them, guards sank to their knees, fingers clawing at their windpipes, eyes bulging wildly. The guard holding Tom released him with a violent jerk, and his fingers began tearing at his throat.
Those hit by the gas tried to scream again, but no sound came. Tom stared in horror at their faces, just feet away from his own. Their skin was turning the distinctive purple-red that marked the victims of the Crimson Flu—but the change was happening in seconds. Soon they were doubled over, thrashing for air. The accelerated infection in their lungs was causing them to blister and froth, and none of them could take a breath.
It was all over in a matter of seconds, yet it felt to Tom like hours, slowly watching the horrific demise of the entire Shadow League Directorate and their guard of honor. Then the spell broke—and he was suddenly aware of the wider chaos around him.
The square was in uproar, the crowd fighting over one another to get away.
Tom leaped from the platform, his thoughts scrambled. He clutched his chest and ran his fingers desperately around his own throat, across his mouth…. Was he too about to start convulsing? Was he about to perish as the others had done? But he felt no burn in his lungs, no fire in his eyes or skin. He sent up prayers of thanks as he stumbled across the overturned benches by the stage, following the escaping crowds.
The far reaches of the square were a roaring mass of bodies trying to funnel their way into the narrow streets like a wave breaking against a wall. The windows of the buildings were now empty of spectators, the rooftops clear too. Tom glanced toward the staff seating area and then the VIP stand. Both were empty. He caught sight of several teachers amid the swarm of bodies ahead, desperately ushering pupils toward one of the lanes out of the square. But he couldn’t see the Corsair. And he couldn’t see Crowe.
Crowe. The man responsible for this massacre.
Memories of the bodies in the Rawlock burned through Tom’s mind. He remembered the cold feel of the corpses’ skin, their pustules and sores, as he and Morris had made their ghastly escape. Rage and hatred threatened to overwhelm him. Had Crowe stayed long enough to see the case being opened, or had he fled beforehand?
Either way, he was still somewhere within the walls of the town. His airship would be moored somewhere—probably in the meadow where Tom and the Corsair had landed in their little biplane all those months ago. Which way was that from here?
Tom couldn’t bring himself to look at the still bodies lying slumped at awkward angles across the stage. He turned his head away and forced his legs to pump faster, sweeping around the side of the Spike toward the alleys that would lead him to the staff houses.
His feet thundered on the cobbles of the deserted streets, echoing off the surrounding buildings. In the distance he heard an occasional shouted voice, but in the main the only sounds were his footfalls, the panting of his breath, and the low hum of an engine, which grew steadily louder as he approached the meadow.
He burst out onto the meandering path that led to the staff houses—but he was unable to see any of the buildings, his view blocked by a dozen or so airships of various sizes. Somewhere, an engine was thrumming deeply. Tom made his way around the edge of the first airship, then between two more, his footsteps cautious now, his eyes stealing quick glances into the dark cabins for any sign of Crowe.
It was the sound of voices as much as the growing noise of the engine that alerted him to his quarry. As he tiptoed around the rear decking of a small dirigible, he saw an airship alive with activity, a group of figures in earnest conversation on the gangplank to the gondola. No, Tom corrected himself—a group in the midst of a fierce argument. And he recognized all four. Crowe was standing on the gangplank, staring down at Lysander, Anushka, and Matthias Hoffmann.
