The School for Thieves, page 4
Around him he could hear the screams and cries of the other children and the exertions from the man dragging him out of the warehouse. He tried to rip his feet clear, kicking his legs violently back and forth and twisting his body, but the hands clamped on his ankles just tightened and a swinging boot caught him in the groin. Then there was more bile vomit.
Half-dazed, he felt the cold ruts in the warehouse floor and heard shouts of instructions between the men. The snatchers had found them. How? They must have been spotted and followed back to the warehouse last night. They thought they had been so careful! But in fact they’d just been stupid. More than that, Tom had been stupid. Why had he dragged Bernie out last night—
Tom struggled for breath as he was dragged out into the yard, the sodden quagmire soaking through the bag and filling his mouth and nose. For a panicked few seconds he thought he was going to drown in the mud, but he was able to turn his head and lean his weight on one shoulder just enough to get his mouth free and suck in air through the sackcloth.
He could hear the clanks of vehicle doors opening nearby and knew what was coming. He readied himself for the lift and drop into the back of the barred van—but instead he heard something else. A sudden scrabble of feet, a wet crunching sound, and a gag from the man carrying him.
The hands around his ankles fell away, and his legs dropped to the ground, landing on something soft. He felt thin fingers tugging at the rim of the bag and pulling it up from under his chin. He blinked furiously as he tried to focus. It took him a few moments to register Maxine’s face just inches from his own.
“Snatchers!” she whispered hoarsely.
She dragged Tom to his feet, and he could now see the snatcher who had captured him lying unconscious beside them. His eyes rounded as Maxine produced a thin dark blade from somewhere on her belt and began to turn him so she could cut his bonds. They were hidden from view by the van, but it would only be a matter of seconds before they were seen. Just as she was about to begin using her knife, more figures emerged from the warehouse.
“You have to get out of here,” Maxine hissed.
Before Tom had a chance to answer, she was pushing him backward, and it was all he could do to keep his feet on the sludgy earth. He heard the rush of the river behind him, and he realized that they were stepping out onto one of the old piers where grain had once been loaded on and off barges and boats.
“Stay safe,” she said, and gave him a hard shove.
Tom toppled backward and fell straight through the rotten boards onto the narrow shale shore below. He groaned for several long seconds, the wind completely knocked out of him. He wondered if his arms had been broken or if his head had been split by the impact of hitting the shore. He couldn’t see or think, could only feel juddering pain and a desperate need to try to breathe.
At last he was able to choke down some air, and he crawled painfully to his feet. He needed to get up to the yard to help Maxine save the others, but he couldn’t climb with his hands tied behind his back. He started to rub the cord up and down as fast as he could against the sharp edge of a rusted plate bolted on to one of the pier’s supporting struts while above him the cries of the children and the shouts and laughter of men echoed around the yard. A few minutes later and with the cords only just beginning to split, he heard a strange whooshing, crackling noise, followed by the vans roaring into life—there must have been five or six of them, maybe even more—and tires squelching loudly. Then there was only silence, save for the rush of the river and Tom’s breathing and the sawing of the cord against the rusted metal.
Tom saw the slate-gray, predawn sky above him darkening as billows of black smoke started to pour out over the river, and an acrid smell of fuel and burning rubber and wood began to sting the back of his throat.
At last the cords frayed enough for him to snap them apart. His arms and wrists were screaming in pain, but he ignored it as he hauled himself up the support struts of the pier and back onto the bank. The warehouse was on fire. An inferno. The vans, the men, and all the children were gone. Maxine, too. They must have gotten her as well.
Something in the mud by one of the tire tracks caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a green stone tied by a shoelace.
Tom felt himself unfolding, losing all shape and sense of who he was.
Everything was gone.
* * *
Tom wandered by the river for a time, staring blankly at the dull waters as they rushed past other old warehouses and on toward the dockyards on their way to the sea. He felt like his old life was being swept away as well. He’d wished all his life for a way out, dreaming of being Edmond Dantès, remaking himself like one of Morris’s origami animals…. But how could he ever become anything without the others’ help?
Dozens of ships moved on the rippling surface of the Thames, great sails turning in the wind and funnels belching plumes of dark smoke into the air. Beyond the ships, the skyline of the city stretched along the banks of the river, with the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising to the sky as flocks of starlings moving like an ink spill flew around the towering dome. It was half a mile or so away, but it was like staring into another world. Overhead he could hear the thrum of a distant zeppelin.
Morris had liked to tell him stories about the great days, when Britain had been a world power—perhaps the world power—before the rise of la Grande République de France had cast every other nation in its shadow, bar the neighboring kingdom of Prussia and the mighty Japanese Empire in the east. Tom could almost see back into those long-ago days of London’s glory, trying to ignore the truth of what the city had now become—a near-forgotten outpost of the French Empire: dirty, crumbling, and with only a thin veneer of its former prestige left to show what it had once been.
A deep knot of anxiety twisting and roiling inside him, Tom found himself outside the slaughterhouse where he, Bernie, and Maxine had hidden the night before. He stared up through the windows, where carcasses now hung from the ceiling hooks, pink-white flesh bright in the cold autumn sun that poured from skylights he hadn’t noticed before. Stepping closer, he could just make out the tiled slant of the roof through the skylight—and a thought struck him.
Taking care to check his surroundings, he headed south toward Great Suffolk Street. When he reached the train bridge, he climbed a drainpipe that took him up and onto the tracks. He hopped quickly across to the far wall, traversed this for a few yards, and then leaped onto the roof of the adjoining building. A climb up another drainpipe took him two stories higher, and then he pulled himself onto the roof of the printworks. He crossed the gulley between two slanting roofs to the far side of the building, where he was able to hunker down and look over the parapet into the Guttknot yard across the road.
Smoke drifted from the workhouse’s chimneys, but other than that there was no discernible sign of life. The yard was empty; no lights shone from any windows; the snatcher vans parked within the gates stood still. If the layout was anything like the Rawlock, the workshops, laundry, and kitchen where the inmates worked would all be belowground. He settled himself by the parapet, leaning against the tiled rooftop, and waited. All he needed was a hint that the others were there and that they were okay. But how could they be okay…?
He let his thoughts fold like paper, trying to obscure his fears, forcing himself to become brave. Confident. Smart. Watchful. And patient. He would wait here for as long as it took. And then he would figure out a way to get them all out.
Chapter Five ROOFTOP RECRUITMENT
There was no sign of any of his friends that day. When it became clear that the Guttknot was being locked down for the night, Tom admitted defeat and pulled himself stiffly from his hiding place. He was cold and hungry and needed to find somewhere to sleep.
In the years after they had escaped the Rawlock, he and Morris had lived an itinerant life, moving from place to place, scraping work where they could and scratching a living by other means when they couldn’t. They hadn’t been long on the road before Morris fell back into drinking, but they had still found a way to survive. Morris had taught Tom his first card tricks and was delighted with how naturally he had taken to the art; then they had moved on to cup and ball tricks—Morris explaining to Tom how ancient they were, with hieroglyphics discovered in Egypt depicting them from the age of the pharaohs. “Perhaps it’s in your blood, my boy,” he had said with a kind smile. “Magic is a wonderful skill to learn. It shows you just how easily the human mind can be deceived.”
Morris had always been good at teaching, and Tom had always been a fast learner. They continued Tom’s education: reading, writing, mathematics, origami, street magic, sleight of hand, pickpocketing, cat burglary, even sign language so they could surreptitiously communicate from a distance…. All were passed on and absorbed. Practical skills like fishing, eeling, building snares to catch food; ways to filter water and treat minor injuries—all had been taught to ensure Tom knew how to survive and look after himself. Even street fighting. Tom knew just about every low blow in the book. As Morris used to hammer home, “You’re small, you’re skinny, and you’re not very strong. So you have to do whatever it takes to win. There’re no prizes for etiquette in a dogfight.” And Tom had enjoyed that; having a scrap felt good. Morris never beat him badly, but he didn’t always hold back, either; although the blows and the choking and leg sweeps and the cheap shots hurt, returning those same moves helped to soothe some of the anger inside him.
Having a scrap wasn’t what he needed now, though. It was money for a bed for the night. He lingered around the London Bridge metro station for a while until two smartly dressed men who were talking in loud, slightly slurred voices jostled their way into the shifting line of commuters entering the station. Tom fell into step behind them and used the distraction of the milling crowd and the men’s inebriation to slip his hand unnoticed into their pockets to remove their wallets. Then, like a shadow, he vanished into the night.
It proved to be a good job. The wallets were fat with francs and centimes. Morris would have been proud of him.
There were a number of shelters, homes, and low-cost hotels that were used by the homeless in London—if they had the money. At one time or another, Tom had stayed in nearly all of them with Morris, and he knew that the Rowton Houses on Arlington Road in Camden Town were the best. The walk would have taken him more than an hour and a half, so he spent a couple of centimes on a bus and enjoyed the warmth and sway of the journey north.
It was perhaps foolish to spend the money like this, but he felt disconnected, as if watching himself from a distance. With the money tucked safely away in the lining of his jacket, it just seemed logical that he should spend it. What would he save it for? He was hungry, tired, and cold to the marrow. At the Rowton Houses he could get a room to himself, some hot stew, maybe even some bread pudding. And, best of all, because it was for those who were down on their luck, no one ever asked any questions. Tom would eat, and then he would lie in a real bed for the first time in nearly two years and he would sleep. Maybe he would sleep forever.
* * *
But awake he did. Stiff and sore but well rested. A few centimes bought him breakfast and some bread and cheese to take with him for the day, before he caught a bus back south. Within an hour he was up on the roof of the printworks on Great Suffolk Street. He settled himself into his spot against the slanting tiles and peered over the parapet to the Guttknot yard, searching again for any sign of life.
There was nothing to be seen. But then something caught his eye. It looked like a scrap of paper, tucked behind one of the roof tiles beside him. He pulled it free. It was a small rectangle of thick cream card, on which was printed in fine copperplate type:
Wanted: the clever, the cunning, and the fearless.
Must be willing to risk death daily.
Fortunes available for the most daring and capable.
No one over 18.
Orphans preferred.
He turned it over. The back was blank. He read the words again. There was something strangely familiar about them, but he couldn’t place why.
The tang of tobacco smoke drifted slowly past his nose. He turned his head as he tried to find its source—and his eyes goggled as he took in a most incongruous sight.
A man was sitting not ten yards away, lazily leaning against the slant of the roof behind him, puffing languorously on a pipe. He was impeccably dressed in a light gray peacoat, gray suit and tie, and a matching gray traveling hat, which was tipped back from his brow to reveal a weather-beaten face half-covered by a thick dark beard. He shot Tom a broad square-toothed grin.
“Bonjour,” he said, raising his hat an inch to reveal long hair swept back against his scalp.
Tom stared at the man, unblinking, his muscles taut as he readied himself for escape.
“Feel free to leave,” said the man, as if reading his thoughts. “But I mean you no harm. If you will allow me a few moments of your time, however, I would like to talk to you.”
“What are you doing up here? What do you want?” The words tumbled out before Tom barely knew he had said them.
The man smiled again. It was a kind smile. Warm.
“I came to talk to you.” The man nodded at the card that was still clutched in Tom’s hand. “About that.”
Tom allowed his gaze to flicker to the card for a moment before returning it to the man.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said slowly. “I cleaned your boots the other day. On Rue Notre-Dame.”
“Indeed.” He spoke with an accent—what was it? French?—which was different from the first time they had met. The other day it had been upper-class English—posh and authoritative. It was authoritative still, and also refined, but it sounded different.
“You helped me get away from the snatchers.”
“I did. I’m impressed with you, Tom. I’ve been watching you for some time.”
Tom’s blood felt as cold as ice. “How do you know my name?”
“I know many things,” said the man nonchalantly.
Tom didn’t see the difference. He didn’t care, either.
“What is this?” he spat. His hands tightened into balls, and he began to unfurl himself to half standing, getting ready to scramble up over the roof beside him or along the parapet behind. If he could make it to the drainpipe before the man…
In answer, the man simply nodded toward the card again. “Perhaps you will sit and let me explain? Non? Very well. As you wish—stand. But I implore you to listen. You are about to have the most important conversation you’ve ever had in your life. I’m here to offer you an opportunity.”
Tom knew all about scammers and con artists and predators. The magic was in the words, the body language, the little leads with the eyes and movements of the hands, tics around the mouth and encouraging tuts and sighs, which were all designed to put the mark off their guard. And it always ended the same way: with an offer of an opportunity to change the victim’s life. Or an attack just when the victim’s guard was dropping. Morris had taught Tom all about these signals, and over the years he had come to recognize them almost instantly in the countless men and women and children who had tried their best to rip him off or steal from him or attack him. None had ever succeeded. Tom was good. Smart. Insightful.
He had all this knowledge. Knew all the warning signs. Understood that no one ever really gave out opportunities from the good of their heart. And yet this man… there was something different about him. Some of the tells were perhaps there—the smile, the eye contact, the voice…. But there was also something else. An intangible something that made Tom want to listen. And that put him on even greater alert.
Perhaps it was the shock of what had happened with the snatchers, but he backed slowly toward the parapet. And sat down.
The man smiled.
“You are in no danger,” he reassured Tom. “Well, not from me.” He spread his arms toward the cityscape stretching out on either side of them. “This life, however… This life you’re living is fraught with danger. I understand that you’re on your own now, Tom. That your friends… your friends are all in there.” He nodded toward the Guttknot.
Tom moved his head a fraction in acknowledgment.
“Why have you come up here?” asked the man. “Trying to figure a way to break them out?”
Tom gave a half shrug.
“How would you do it?” asked the man.
The question surprised Tom. He wasn’t sure at first if the man wanted him to answer, but he sat there with an expectant look on his face, evidently waiting for a reply.
“I—I dunno,” stuttered Tom. “Like… I might climb the walls—”
“Well, you know that wouldn’t work,” said the man with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The walls are high and spiked, and the men who built them were rather careful to make sure they weren’t easy walls to climb. But say you managed it; once you were inside the perimeter, you’d still have to break into the building itself. And if we assume that you managed that, you don’t know where the cells are or even which cells your friends are in, meaning you’d have to break into each cell one by one and then, also one by one, get your friends back up and over the wall. And all that without being caught? Zut alors!” He shook his head and clicked his tongue in disappointment.
Tom, annoyed by how quickly his idea had been shot down before he’d even had a chance to explain it properly, snapped, “Well, there are other ways.”
“Such as?”
“Um. Well, what about the sewers? There’s a manhole on the far side of the bridge. You could follow the sewer and come up somewhere inside the Guttknot. I bet you could climb up through the drains into the showers or the laundry—”
