The School for Thieves, page 5
“You have an intimate knowledge of the sewer system around here? And you’re confident that you’re small enough and thin enough to climb up through a drainage pipe?” The man appraised him for a moment. “Well, perhaps you are. But again, you have the problem of what to do once you’re in there. Where are the cells? How do you unlock them? How do you get everyone out without getting caught? Are your friends all as scrawny as you? Will they all fit back down through the drains? I imagine that is unlikely.”
“I could climb in through the roof,” said Tom quickly. “There’s a skylight I’ve spotted up there. It must lead to an attic—”
“Do you have specialist climbing equipment? Some kind of crowbar to open the skylight? Ropes to get in and out? And again… again you have the problem of locating the cells, breaking them open, and getting everyone out, no?”
“So, what are you saying? That it’s impossible to rescue them?”
“No, no, it’s not impossible. And do you know, I like how you’re thinking. The ideas are not bad, but they need more thought. More planning. Refinement. What I’m trying to highlight to you is that you are simply not ready, Tom. Not yet. But one day… One day you might be. With a little help. With my help.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Allow me to explain. Are you going to run away, or are you going to give me a few more minutes of your time?”
Tom realized that all his thoughts about running away had receded.
“I can give you a few more minutes,” he muttered. “Keep talking.”
“Bon. Well, one day, with the right training, the right experience, the right planning, and the right equipment… Yes, well, then those ideas of yours would work.”
“Why does this feel like you’re having me on?”
“My dear boy, that’s the last thing I’m doing! Indeed, I’m praising you. I’m impressed. You have just the right attitude. It’s no insult to say you’re not ready yet. You’re only thirteen.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve told you—I know many things. I’ve been watching you for some time, Tom. I’ve been impressed by you. Not just your skills with cards or your ability to pick pockets—that was nicely done yesterday evening, by the way—but the way you have handled yourself. You’re a leader, Tom. You’re smart. And I like the way you think. You are… interesting.”
Tom’s head was reeling. “How do you know all this?” he cried again. It was all too much. “Why have you been following me?”
In answer, the man stabbed a thick finger toward the card that was now crushed in Tom’s fist. “I’m here to recruit you.”
“Recruit me? Recruit me for what?”
“A school, Tom. A very special school.”
“A school?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say? Oui, a school!”
Tom stared down at the card again, rereading the words. Words that were so strangely familiar. But from where?
With a frown, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out The Count of Monte Cristo. Buried halfway was a tattered bookmark. Tom held it up beside the card. Although the writing on Morris’s old bookmark was barely legible now, Tom could see enough to tell that it had once borne the exact same words as those on the card.
“So… Morris kept his card?” whispered the man. “Well, I’ll be…”
Tom’s head snapped up. “How do you know about Morris? How can you possibly know about him?” The anger was back again. He could feel himself folding, becoming a tiger. No one talked about Morris….
“It is not a story for just now. What I’m here to discuss with you is an opportunity.”
“By recruiting me to a school?”
“A very special school. Did Morris ever speak to you about it? I wonder.”
“No.”
“Never?”
Tom thought for a moment and then reluctantly, because it sounded so absurd to say the words out loud, said, “He told me… made-up stories… about a make-believe school… never about a real school.”
“And why do you presume it was make-believe?”
Tom still felt like he was being toyed with. But he answered the question. “You didn’t do normal subjects there. You learned… different things.”
“Like?”
“I dunno,” said Tom, exasperated. “Like… how to break into bank vaults or how to make fake coins or false identity papers… or how to stow away on ships. All sorts of crazy, funny stuff.”
“Crazy, funny stuff,” the man repeated thoughtfully.
“What is this?” spat Tom, suddenly angry again. “They were just stories—fantasies. They weren’t true!”
“Weren’t they?”
“You’re insane, you know that? Have you escaped from somewhere?”
The man barked a laugh. “No, I’ve not escaped from an asylum. Although,” he considered, “I suppose that’s what I would say if I had escaped from an asylum.”
He gave Tom a wink, and despite himself, Tom couldn’t help but feel the fire of his anger quell a fraction.
The man reached down to his coat and drew out the page of a newspaper. He handed it to Tom. It was the front page of the Times from that morning.
THEFT OF PRICELESS TREASURE TROVE FROM THE BRITISH MUSEUM read the headline.
Tom remembered the day he had first encountered the man—he had been reading a newspaper while Tom polished his boots, and the story about the treasure of Sargon the Great of Mesopotamia coming to London had been on the page facing him. According to the newspaper he was now reading, a collection of jewel-encrusted statuettes from Sargon’s treasure had been stolen from the museum the night before the grand opening of the exhibition. And whoever was responsible had left without a trace.
Tom read the article quickly. It seemed that the guards at the museum had been taken unawares and overcome without any of them laying an eye on their assailants. The next morning the curator had gone for a final check of the exhibit only to find the guards trussed up, their heads bagged, all of them unconscious, and the exhibit’s centerpiece gone. How the perpetrators had gotten in and out, no one knew. All the doors were locked, no alarms had been triggered, and the only room to have been disturbed in the museum was the one containing the Sargon treasures.
“Why are you showing me this?” asked Tom, baffled.
“Because it was a school assignment.”
Tom looked utterly bemused.
“The pupils take part in challenges throughout the school year,” continued the man. “This was one of those challenges—for the senior pupils.”
Tom was incredulous. “You had school pupils steal this treasure?”
The man grinned, his large square teeth showing through the thick beard. “Better than that, Tom. We taught them how to steal this treasure. My name is Hezekiah von Stuppe, and I am the Master of Guile House at Beaufort’s School for Deceptive Arts. Or Thieves School, if you must. I am also known as the Corsair. You may call me that if you like.”
A thousand thoughts were racing through Tom’s mind. Eventually a question blurted out ahead of all the others. “How did they do it?”
The Corsair threw back his head and roared with laughter. “And that is precisely why I want you!” He tapped out the tobacco from the pipe and began to refill it from a bag produced from his coat pocket. “It was the air vents. They’re not very wide, but they are more than wide enough for the pupils we sent in. The vents lead directly to the roof. A small group of pupils slipped down through the vents and then through a grille into the exhibition room. Then they coordinated a simultaneous attack on the guards, darting them with a toxin that knocked them out on the spot. The guards were secured and the pupils transported the treasure up through the vents. It was actually very simple—as many of the great crimes are. And crucially, they left no trace of their presence, which is the kind of detail that got them full marks from the examiner. Which was me, as it happens.”
It all sounded absurd. Too absurd to ever be true. And yet so intriguing… “And why would you want me?”
The Corsair paused. “You have skills, Tom. I wouldn’t have approached you if I didn’t think you were suitable. Thieves School can be tough and it can be dangerous, but if the pupils survive their time there and learn to thrive in its environment, then there are great riches and great power to be gained from the education we provide.”
“But if I accept…,” began Tom, his voice cracking a little. “What about the others?”
The Corsair hauled himself to his feet. He was barrel-chested and taller than Tom had remembered from the other day. He approached Tom and gently laid his hands on his shoulders. “Let me train you. Learn what you need to learn. And then you can break them out—and I don’t just mean from the Guttknot. By the time you’re ready to free them from that place, you’ll be in a position to give them whole new lives afterward. You’ll have riches at your disposal. And in doing so you can give them something they have never had before—and will never have without you. A future.”
Tom stared back out toward the Guttknot.
“But the choice is yours,” murmured the Corsair. “You have to decide whether you are in or out. If you are in, come to this address tomorrow evening.” He handed Tom another card. “If you are out, I understand and I will wish you bon chance; you will not see me again. But I hope you will give my offer the consideration it deserves. That you deserve.”
Chapter Six FIRESIDE TALES
The wind sighed through the skeletal trees in Eaton Square Gardens, scattering dry leaves from behind the iron railings to circle Tom’s feet as he approached the address scrawled on the piece of paper clutched in his hand. The night sky was clear, and the air had a bite to it that suggested an impending frost.
Eaton Square was one of the most exclusive addresses in the city, and one of the few to have retained the majesty that had once defined so many grand residences during the height of Britain’s glory days. Tom found himself standing outside a town house built from brilliant white stone with a wide black front door framed by thick pillars. Large, brightly lit windows rose over four stories above him. The place was enormous.
Tom pulled on the bell and heard it echoing inside. There was a shuffle of feet, the thunk of a bolt, and an ancient-looking man in coattails drew back the door.
“Good evening, young mashter Morgan,” said the man, valiantly using his lips to keep his dentures in place as he spoke. “I am Mildew, the butler. Do come in.”
Mildew closed the door behind them before lopsidedly leading Tom down a wide flagstone corridor to a dining room.
The Corsair was in the middle of a meal, but he threw down his cutlery when he saw Tom and stood in greeting. “Welcome, welcome!” he cried, and shook Tom’s hand vigorously. “I am so delighted to see you, my dear boy. You would like some food? Very good. Mildew, if you could.”
Mildew nodded and disappeared from the room.
“Please, take a seat,” said the Corsair, returning to his place. “The food won’t be a moment. I had them cook extra in the hope that you would arrive.”
He beamed at Tom, who stared around him at the extraordinary opulence of the room. He had never seen anything like it in his life. There were great landscape oil paintings on the silk-lined walls and silver and crystal everywhere—candlesticks, decanters, glasses, cutlery, ornaments, salt and pepper bowls, gravy boats, coasters, ice buckets, napkin rings, snuff boxes, a huge chandelier. A fire roared in the hearth, and the thick carpet bounced under his feet. He wondered if he was in a dream.
Mildew reappeared, carrying an enormous tray laden with silver-domed dishes, which he set shakily on a sideboard, moving a thick photograph album out of the way in order to clear some space. Then he served Tom his food.
Tom had never eaten anything like it. The potatoes were mouthfuls of heaven, the carrots and beans lightly buttered and as delicious as anything he had ever dreamed possible. And the meat. He had only ever known chewy, gristly meat—not this, which seemed to dissolve in his mouth under the barest pressure from his teeth. He had no idea what was going on, whether the school that the Corsair had described was real, or whether the whole thing was some kind of cruel joke—but right now he didn’t care. To be eating this food in the comfort of this chair—and its deep velvet pads were so comfortable—he felt that he could now die happy.
Perhaps that’s what this was. A condemned boy’s last meal. Or the fattening of a victim. What was really going on here?
“What are you thinking?” asked the Corsair. He was sitting back in a chair that was half turned toward the fire, smoking a small cigar and drinking a ruby-red wine from a delicate crystal glass.
Tom took a moment to answer. He was thinking so many things.
“You said that you knew Morris,” he said eventually. “But I just… I don’t know….”
“Let me show you something.” The Corsair retrieved the photograph album from the sideboard. He flicked through its pages for a moment until he found what he was looking for and handed the album to Tom.
The first photograph, on the left-hand page, showed a mix of boys and girls, all dressed in dark shirts and neatly fitted jackets and trousers; they each wore a top hat around which they had tied a band or scarf. Tom squinted at two boys near the middle of the group, arms flung across each other’s shoulders. Strip away the years, the damage from the drink and the hard living in the Rawlock and on the road… and yes… it was Morris.
“That you next to him?” he asked.
The Corsair nodded. “And here.” He turned several pages. “A few years later.”
Tom peered at the image. It was of two men in their early twenties, in a library or an office of some sort, with a woman of the same age. This version of the Corsair—more recognizable now, as he had grown a beard—was leaning against a desk, staring at the camera, while Morris stood beside him, a book in one hand, the other resting on his hip as he too stared at the camera. The woman was looking at them both, her pretty features in profile, long curled hair tucked behind her ear, a wide grin on her face as if one of them had just made a joke. Tom flicked back to the first photograph and saw she was in that one as well, among the crowd of other children jostling around the Corsair and Morris.
“Who’s she?” he asked.
The Corsair sat back in his chair and took a sip from his glass. “Morris and I go back a long way,” he said quietly. “I think he would be pleased to know I am looking out for you.”
Tom knew that photographs could be doctored, but he couldn’t see any sign that these were anything other than authentic. The crinkle in Morris’s eyes, the shape of his mouth, his teeth. And for the second time in two days, Tom felt like the bottom had dropped out of his world. He was spinning, unanchored. First he had lost everyone he knew and cared about; then everything he thought he knew about the person he had cared about the most was lost as well. He didn’t know Morris at all. He never had.
Tom eyed the silver cutlery lying on the table nearby. That might be worth a pretty centime or two. He reached for his glass of water, and as he did so, he slipped the dessert fork and spoon up his sleeve.
“Oh, come now,” said the Corsair flatly. Tom’s eyes flicked up to meet the Corsair’s. “Honor among thieves, Tom. Have some class.”
Tom, flushing, picked the cutlery from his sleeve and replaced it.
“Thank you. No more of that. Do you hear me?”
Tom nodded and cleared his throat. He was embarrassed that he had been caught. “This school,” he said, in an effort to break the stony silence that had fallen over the room. “Where is it? What do we learn there? Who teaches us? And why? Who runs the place? And—”
“Enough!” cried the Corsair with a throaty chuckle. It was as if the incident with the cutlery hadn’t occurred. “We’ll come to all of that. But first—are you finished eating? Bon. I think it would be a good idea for you to have a bath and change into some new clothes. In fact, not just a good idea—the only idea. I don’t think my nose can stand a second longer of you. There’s a bath drawn for you upstairs. Mildew will show you the way. Please scrub thoroughly. And perhaps soap and rinse at least a dozen times. Then, when you’re ready, we can meet in the drawing room and talk some more.”
* * *
It was well over an hour later—and after three top-ups from the hot tap—that Tom finally extricated himself from the bath. He dried himself with a thick white towel and returned to the adjoining bedroom, where Mildew had laid out a pair of trousers, a smock shirt, underwear, and slipper-type shoes, all in black. Tom dressed in the new clothes—which all fit him perfectly—and then rifled through his old coat, pulling out his copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and his pack of playing cards, which he placed carefully on the bedside table, glancing momentarily at Morris’s own dog-eared Thieves School recruitment card. Finally, he fished out the green stone on the shoelace. He tied it around his neck and tucked it out of sight beneath the shirt.
With small, shuffling steps, Mildew led Tom back downstairs to the drawing room on the first floor. The Corsair was lounging in a wingback chair by the fire, another cigar and a fresh glass of wine resting on a table by his side.
“A huge improvement,” he said without looking up. “There is barely a trace of that distinctive swampy smell of yours. Take a seat.”
Tom eased himself into an identical chair on the other side of the fireplace and regarded the Corsair closely. The rational part of his brain was telling him to tread carefully, to be wary of everything the Corsair said. But another part couldn’t deny that, for a reason he was unable to quite define, he trusted him. As ludicrous as it all sounded—about the school, about everything—he believed him. He could see the truth in the Corsair’s eyes when he said that he and Morris had been friends.
He took a deep breath. Don’t be passive, he told himself. Ask more questions. Dig. Once you have more information, you can make better decisions. He would assess everything and give nothing away. He wouldn’t be dismissive, but nor would he believe everything he was told.
