The School for Thieves, page 27
“Try to follow us and you’re dead,” shouted the pilot as he lowered Crowe through the door of the gondola.
A few moments later, they had vanished from sight.
“We should follow them, shouldn’t we?” hissed Tom. “We can’t let them get away!”
“I don’t think I can,” whispered the Corsair.
The pirate was gray in the face. The blood on his shirt had thickened considerably. Tom reached over and pulled back the Corsair’s coat to reveal a large shard of glass protruding just below his rib cage.
“I think I’m going to pass out,” whispered the Corsair. He seemed about to say something else, but then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed heavily against Tom.
Chapter Twenty-Six FALLOUT
THE SHADOW LEAGUE ARGUS
DIRECTORATE TRAGEDY!
SHOCKING ACCIDENT AT THE INTERNATIONAL SHADOW CUP CHAMPIONS’ CEREMONY LEADS TO THE DEATH OF ALL FOUR MEMBERS OF THE SHADOW LEAGUE DIRECTORATE
The Shadow League is in shock and mourning today as news travels the world of the demise of the Directorate. Investigations are ongoing, but officials close to the case have revealed that a canister containing a deadly pathogen—which had been stolen by Apprentices from Beaufort’s School for Deceptive Arts to win the 103rd International Shadow Cup—was inadvertently damaged in transit and broke open when the Grand High Thief examined it during the ceremony. The pathogen killed every member of the Directorate and their guard of honor in moments.
Siegfried Templeton, headmaster of Beaufort’s, narrowly escaped the radius of the deadly blast. He was, however, still exposed to the pathogen and, along with a number of Beaufort’s pupils, has been transferred to the hospital.
The central streets of Beaufort’s have been placed in quarantine, and the school is now in lockdown. Pupils will not be released home until the town is cleared of Crimson Flu cases.
A memorial service will be held for the fallen Directorate in ten days’ time. Meanwhile, an emergency Directorate will be formed, led by representatives from the four guilds—Romulus Knox (Thieves), Ludo Trevelyan (Spies), Julius Knotweed (Politicos), and Dr. Eva Kingfisher (Assassins).
Pathogen accident analysis, pages 4–5
In memoriam: Directorate obituaries, pages 6–9
Raindrops blossomed on the windows of the Corsair’s office. Seated alone by the desk, Tom watched the rain spatter and pop against the glass before running in rivulets out of sight. In the distance he could hear the voices of students moving through the corridors of the house. They had all been examined by Dr. Hawthorne, who had declared them safe from the effects of the pathogen, but until the quarantine period was complete, they were all stuck inside the walls of Guile House.
Tom himself had only just been discharged by Dr. Hawthorne. The only reason he had survived such close proximity with the gas, Dr. Hawthorne informed him, had been thanks to the immunity he had developed during the outbreak of the Crimson Flu in the Rawlock.
Templeton didn’t have such protection—but the doctor told Tom that he had likely saved the headmaster’s life when he’d knocked him off the stage. He had been struck down by the Crimson Flu, but the signs were positive that he would recover. Had Templeton been in situ when the case had been opened, he too would have suffered the fate that befell the Directorate.
“The rest of the faculty and the student body are also largely fine,” said the doctor. “We have a few cases of the flu, but we are hopeful that the outbreak has been contained. Thankfully, the wind was blowing strongly toward the Spike when the device went off, and it dispersed most of the gas away from the crowd. I dare not think of the consequences had it been blowing the other way.”
Shortly after Tom and the Corsair had staggered away from the wreckage of the airship, Pemberley had come to the rescue, having managed to touch the plane down in a meadow near the tower. The Master of Duplicity House had been ghost-white with blood loss, but his hands had been steady as he applied a field dressing to the Corsair’s wound and then one to his own. Night had long fallen by the time they had all returned to Beaufort’s, where they were met by Dr. Hawthorne. She had separated them at once in the infirmary, in fear they might have been contaminated.
After almost a week in quarantine, Dr. Hawthorne accompanied Tom back to Guile House and delivered him to the Corsair’s office. “I believe he wants to talk to you,” she said, leading him in. “You have had some luck, Mr. Morgan. May it continue throughout the rest of your career.”
She had left then, and Tom had taken up his station in the deep folds of the armchair.
A few minutes later the door to the study creaked open. The Corsair’s left arm was bent at the elbow, and his movements were slow and stiff. He was still very pale.
“Good to see you,” said the Corsair with a grimace that Tom guessed was an attempt at a welcoming grin.
He crossed to the grate, where a fire had been set but not lit, and muttered something about Locke needing to do his job properly. He fumbled with a box of matches, trying to remove and light one with just his right hand, until Tom intervened and took the box from him. He struck a match and held it to a rolled-up page from the Argus until it lit. The page in question showed a photograph of the recently murdered Grand High Assassin. The flames licked at Kat Wicker’s stern face and consumed it. Then a single curl of ash, all that was left of the picture, drifted away in the hearth.
“I hear you have a clean bill of health,” remarked the Corsair, easing himself into his chair behind his desk. “Très bien. Wonderful news.”
“Yeah, I’m all right,” said Tom. “How’re you?”
The Corsair gave a thin smile. “Healing. Although I don’t think I’ll be swinging between aircraft anytime soon. Pemberley’s recovering too. It might take him a while to get back to fighting fitness, though. He lost a lot of blood.” He paused. “You saved my life, Tom.”
Tom, embarrassed by the way the Corsair was looking at him, shrugged.
The Corsair smiled softly. “I’m grateful you did.”
“Have they found his body?” asked Tom.
“No, not yet. But I agree, I’m not sure how far he’ll have gotten with that rod in his chest. His body will be out there somewhere. Maybe the pilot buried him in the forest.”
Tom bit his lip. “There’s been no mention of him in the Argus. Or the pilot. Why? Shouldn’t everyone know what happened?”
“We have the small matter of proof,” said the Corsair dryly. “Which is why the whole matter is being swept under the carpet. There’s not a mention anywhere about Crowe’s airship escaping after the attack, that it crashed, that he is missing. It’s all been covered up. Romulus Knox, the new Grand High Thief, has closed any investigation. We have been ordered to mourn the passing of the old Directorate and to pay tribute to them. But nothing more is to be said about the so-called accident with the gas canisters and anything else that occurred.”
Tom was incensed. “So that’s it? It’s over?”
“Oh, non, non, non,” said the Corsair with a frown. “It is far from over. The official investigation may be dead, but there are those of us who will continue to pursue it. We won’t let the swine who were behind this plot get away with it. We can’t—the future of the League depends on it. The future of the world depends on it. Remember the koma. We cannot allow the rotation to stop. We cannot let it fall out of balance. If we do, the world will never be the same.”
“But without Crowe, where do you even start?”
“There are others with information who we are questioning.”
Tom paused. “The Hoffmanns?”
The Corsair smiled thinly. “Very sharp, Tom.”
“And Matthias? Is he all right?” Tom pictured the terrified faces of the Hoffmanns, how lost and confused Matthias had looked while Crowe had threatened his father outside the airship. The boy had shown nothing but loathing for Tom since they had first set eyes on each other, but all Tom felt now was pity.
“He’s safe,” said the Corsair. “But will he get over what he’s done? I’m not sure. We shall see.”
“He had no idea what he was part of, did he?” said Tom.
The Corsair shook his head. “No. Nor did his parents. Lysander Hoffmann has always hated non-legacy members of the League getting above their station, as he would say. Like the petty bully he is, he thought it a great game to bring Siegfried Templeton down a few pegs. And he wanted to be headmaster here once Templeton was gone.
“Of course, Lysander was always set up to be the fall guy by the conspirators if anything went wrong. He was asked by Crowe to orchestrate things with Silverman and Chaffinch and to engineer the cup challenge in Beaufort’s favor—but he had no idea what the documents Silverman had photographed were or how they would be used. He was just a stooge. The fact that he didn’t piece it together rather demonstrates how stupid he really is.”
The Corsair lit a cigarette, drew deeply, and then coughed loudly. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and contemplated the smoldering tip, then turned his gaze back to Tom. “How did you know that the case was booby-trapped?”
Tom told him everything. When he was finished, the Corsair shook his head in admiration.
“Magnifique,” he breathed. “Très, très magnifique.”
“It didn’t do any good, though,” said Tom bleakly. “I didn’t stop it from happening. Nothing changed.”
“The headmaster might think otherwise.”
“Well, yes, I suppose. But that was pure luck. And then Crowe…” Tom swallowed. “If I hadn’t boarded his ship, Master Pemberley would have remained in disguise and flown Crowe wherever he wanted. Pemberley may have found more answers.”
“I don’t think my dear friend would have lasted an awful lot longer before he was discovered, to be honest,” observed the Corsair. “Horacio had no idea where the supposed rendezvous was. Crowe would have realized soon enough—and then what? No, the way it all worked out… We have leads to follow, and the perpetrators believe they have gotten away with it.”
Tom frowned. “Won’t they be worried about the Hoffmanns spilling the beans?”
“They will. And they’ll be hunting for them. They will also believe that the Hoffmanns have nowhere to turn, no allies anywhere. But they do.” He gave a wolfish smile. “We’re keeping them safe.”
“And what about me? What do I do now?” Tom knew it sounded childish to ask these questions in the face of so many larger horrors, but he felt unmoored. So much had happened so fast, it felt like his world was spinning off its axis once again.
The Corsair was silent for a very long time. “You are part of the inner sanctum now, Tom,” he said at last, and Tom felt the warmth of relief. “Now you watch. You listen. You go about your school life as if that whole incident with the airship never happened. You were running through the streets like everyone else. Master Pemberley and I will be able to attest to that.”
Tom chewed an anxious hangnail. “How do I explain why I climbed onto the stage?”
“Do you know,” the Corsair murmured, “I think very few people will remember that. But if they do, you could always say you did it as a dare.”
Tom grimaced. “Sounds pretty thin to me.”
The Corsair allowed himself a little laugh. “Well, think of something better then! But the truth is, I don’t believe anyone will ask. Too many terrible things have happened. Now all they want to do is get out of this town and not think about coming back until the new school year begins. And from an official standpoint? It never happened.”
“If you say so,” said Tom, unconvinced.
The Corsair scratched his chin, his fingers rasping through his thick beard.
“You’ve done very, very well,” he said, rising to his feet. He walked falteringly around to the other side of the desk and then perched on its edge, looking down at Tom.
It reminded Tom of the way Morris would sometimes sit in the classroom back at the Rawlock.
“It’s the end of the school year,” continued the Corsair. “Prize-giving time. Of all the pupils in Guile House, I think you deserve a prize most of all. What did I promise you if you surprised me this year? A bag of gold coins? Well, I think we should up that to a chest of gold coins. It sounds more piratical, no? I shall arrange for the mint to deliver it from my vault before the quarantine is over.”
“Thank you,” breathed Tom. That kind of money could change his life forever. But of course, his wasn’t the life that needed changing now.
“Would it be possible,” he said tentatively, “if I could also ask a favor?”
The Corsair barked a laugh of surprise. “Is a chest of gold not enough for you? Ha! Quite right, a Shadow Thief should always look for something extra. What is the favor?”
When Tom explained, the Corsair crossed to the window. He looked out at the rain pattering on the glass.
“Well,” he said at last with a smile. “Who am I to pass up an opportunity for such valuable teaching experience?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven LEAVE NO ONE BEHIND
A soft mist was floating off the Thames. It rolled over the Embankment to shroud the nearby streets, wending its way into every nook and cranny. When it reached the cold stone walls of the Guttknot, it curled around the workhouse like a veil, blurring the light that spilled from the barred windows.
It was six o’clock, and the guards were just beginning their morning shift.
They began by rousing the adult population of the workhouse, loudly banging gongs, unlocking the doors to the shared wards and the individual cells.
Then they moved to the attic level, where the older children slept in a cramped cell that reeked of damp.
There was a full minute of stunned silence after the door was unlocked. Then the commotion began. For when the porters swung the heavy iron door back, they found that the cell was empty. Twelve able-bodied children—steady earners for the workhouse master, his board of directors, and the minister for workhouses—were gone. Vanished. Like a magic trick.
The workhouse master stormed into the attic in a bluster of furious disbelief and busied himself fruitlessly looking under the thin iron beds and in empty corners of the otherwise unfurnished room for the missing children.
Then there came another alarm. The cell in the basement, which housed another nine children, was also empty. How could this be?
The guards were grilled about security oversights, but the master was assured that the doors—which were the only access in or out of the cells—had been locked and bolted the night before and the keys kept safe in the guards’ office overnight, as they always were. Indeed, the guard who had first raised the alarm that morning was willing to swear on his life that he had unlocked and unbolted the door to the attic before finding it empty. The guard who had discovered the empty basement said the same thing.
Neither the doors nor the locks on either cell had been tampered with; nor had any of the doors and locks that stood between the cells and the outside world. The only other access point to the basement was a drain beneath the communal washroom—but that clearly hadn’t been tampered with: the bolts holding the drain in place were screwed tight.
From the attic there was no way out either. There were no windows to climb through, and the skylight didn’t open.
The whole thing was a complete mystery.
What the investigators did not examine, however, were the undersides of the bolts on the iron grate that covered the drain in the basement. If these had been checked, the investigators would have found fresh scratches that suggested that they had been unscrewed—and then tightened again—from below.
Similarly, they didn’t know that a section of the roof had had its tiles and ceiling boards removed and then replaced.
At shortly after three that morning, the children imprisoned in the basement had been squeezed through the drain—even Bernie, who had lost the last vestiges of his puppy fat after months of hard labor and rationed food—and led through the sewers by a group of dark-clothed figures until they reached an outlet onto the Thames.
At exactly the same time, those in the attic had been hauled onto the roof by another group of mysterious dark-clothed figures before zip-lining over the perimeter walls to a building opposite and led to the Embankment to meet those rescued from the basement.
There the children had boarded a boat that had turned silently through the ghostly mist and headed downriver toward the sea. It was only then that the escapees realized their saviors were another group of children—and, perhaps most astonishingly of all, that two of them had very familiar faces.
At Greenwich, the rescued kids boarded a larger ship, which would take them to a new life beyond London. While Enzo, Jericho, and the Guile House Tenderfoots stayed with the Corsair, who had been piloting the boat, Tom and Maxine went on board with the warehouse kids. There they presented each child with a trunk of fine new clothing, identity cards, and a pouch of gold coins. They were all like Edmond Dantès now, thought Tom. All, in their own ways, little Counts of Monte Cristo. Morris would have approved.
“But where have you been?” Grayson asked Tom for the dozenth time. “How do you look like that? Where did you get those clothes? And all this gold? And how on earth did you learn to break us out like that?”
“Tom doesn’t want to be pestered,” Daisy said, saving Tom from further interrogation. “Leave him be.”
“You came back,” Bernie said, his big eyes bright as he gazed at Tom. A torrent of different emotions crossed the younger boy’s face as he tried to find the right words. Eventually he settled for simplicity. “You’re safe? Doing well?”
