The School for Thieves, page 9
“It’s just water, you great sap,” she scolded. “I told you not to touch it. I’m still testing the mechanisms.”
The Corsair glared down angrily at the open case, which Tom could now see contained three large metal canisters. Plumes of misty water were still escaping from the ends of the canisters, rising like wreaths of smoke into the air above the desk. Jessica snapped the lid shut, muttering, “You better not have ruined it, I’ve still to treat the leather on both of these….”
“Sorry, sorry,” said the Corsair, wiping droplets of water from his beard. “This is for Skylar Hoffmann? What does she want with a couple of joke-shop briefcases?”
“Not for Skylar,” said Jessica, derisively waving away the suggestion at the same time as shooing him away from the workbench. “It’s for Lysander.”
“Ha! That sounds more like it. Has Lysander finally realized what a clown he is and that maybe there’s a career for him in the circus?”
“Don’t be so catty.” She sounded defensive, as if he was suggesting she had lowered herself to crafting burlesque ephemera.
“Curious, though…”
“Curious how?”
“Oh, nothing to do with this. It’s just we bumped into Marcus Silverman tonight, and he said he was on a job for Lysander too. Funny coincidence, that’s all.”
“Indeed.”
He peered back over her shoulder to examine the lids of the cases. “What is that symbol?”
“Never you mind,” she said, shooing him away again. “You’re a nosy devil today, aren’t you?”
“I’ll take the bracelet back if you want,” teased the Corsair.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Jessica replied waspishly. “A deal’s a deal, and a deal’s been done. You just head along now, you’ve done quite enough staring.”
With Tom’s trunk loaded on a handcart, they bade Jessica farewell and headed back up the elevator to the yard where their car was waiting to return them to Eaton Square.
Exhausted, they were delighted to see that Mildew had supper waiting for them. They ate and washed and then, to Tom’s surprise, he was called into the drawing room, where Mildew made him pose for a headshot photograph.
“Get yourself to bed now,” the Corsair instructed as he too settled in to have his photograph taken. “It’s another early start in the morning.”
Chapter Ten THE FLIGHT OF THE ASTORS
Tom stared up at the looming zeppelin as he and the Corsair crossed the aerodrome concourse. The words SKY VOYAGER were painted in large Gothic lettering down the length of its vast cylindrical hull, which towered above the passenger gondola and the small parasite aircraft that clung beneath its base, looking like a child’s toy.
In his hand he clutched the fake passport the Corsair had handed him that morning. He was traveling under the name Sebastian Astor, while the Corsair was using the name Lord Theodore Astor, Marquess of Tweeddale.
“So I’m your son?” he’d asked.
“How careless of you to forget.”
Tom had cast an appraising eye over the Corsair, then said plummily, “Well, I am most grateful that my looks come from Mama’s side of the family.”
The Corsair had barked a laugh. “That’s it, you’re disinherited.”
Tom had often enjoyed watching the zeppelins as they flew high above the city, but he had never imagined he’d get a chance to actually travel in one. As they approached the gangway that led up into the gondola, his feelings of excitement and awe gave way to nervous apprehension. Now that he was stepping on board, he began to wonder how a machine as monstrously big and heavy as the Sky Voyager could possibly rise to the clouds and carry them safely across earth and sea. And he still didn’t know exactly where they were flying to. So, as they were stepping into the gondola, he asked.
“The zeppelin is flying to Geneva,” replied the Corsair, and before Tom could ask him another question, a steward appeared to guide them up a narrow flight of stairs to their quarters.
“Here you are, my lord,” said the steward, opening the door into a palatially furnished cabin containing armchairs, a table, and a desk and gently lit by several ornate lamps. There was a small window in the far wall, but curiously, it didn’t appear to look out on to anything. It was only when Tom went to inspect it more closely that he realized they were inside the hull of the airship.
“It’s warmer in here,” explained the Corsair absently as he tipped the steward. “Hot air circulates from the engines. That’s why they put the first-class quarters up here. But don’t worry. You get excellent views from the dining room downstairs.” He turned to the steward. “A table for two.”
The steward nodded. “Of course, my lord. Now? This way, please.”
They were shown back downstairs and along a corridor to the dining room, where they took up a place at a mahogany table beside one of the wide viewing windows. The steward then went to a cupboard and returned with two fur overcoats and blankets.
“It can get rather chilly during the flight,” explained the Corsair as he slipped on one of the coats. “They don’t have heating down here—in case of fire.”
This didn’t make Tom feel any better about the flight, but he tried to hide his trepidation by examining the menu—and ignored the Corsair’s wolfish grin at his obvious anxiety.
Such was his concentration that Tom didn’t notice at first when the ship lifted off from the docking bay and began to rise smoothly skyward. But when he did, his breath caught in his throat. He threw himself toward the window and stared out as the cityscape fell away below and the horizon beyond grew broader and broader. All of London seemed to spread out below them, the river glinting silver, great clouds of dark smoke pouring into the paling light of morning like a blanket over the city. Parks and gardens and then green fields began to scatter the land below them as the zeppelin turned to make its way toward the coast, leaving behind everything Tom had ever known.
“It’s quite the feeling, isn’t it?” murmured the Corsair.
Tom wanted to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. He just nodded in reply.
“Let’s have a celebratory breakfast,” said the Corsair, “to toast your first flight. It’ll be one you’ll remember for the rest of your life.” He snapped his fingers for a waiter.
* * *
A string quartet played for the guests after breakfast, before tea and Victoria sponge were served for elevenses. After lunch—a rich feast of lobster bisque, boeuf bourguignon, and tarte tatin—the Corsair drifted off to sleep, his head bent, his beard nestled into the thick fur of his overcoat.
Almost two hours passed before the Corsair stirred. One eye shot open to stare at Tom before quickly surveying the rest of the room.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe,” Tom said dryly.
“You can never be too careful,” the Corsair muttered thickly, before pulling himself upright. “It’s always important to be aware of your surroundings.”
“Oh, I can see that. You’ve been very alert. Like a cat.”
“I am very catlike, as it happens.”
“You look like one in those furs. Overindulged by its owner for years. Many, many years. I reckon I could’ve picked your pocket with a boxing glove and you wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Ha! I don’t think so! You’ll do well to surprise me. In fact, if you surprise me just once this year, I’ll reward you with a bag of gold coins.” He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time before stretching and pulling the coat tighter around him, obviously feeling the chill. “Now I think I need a little something to warm me up.”
The Corsair ordered a cognac and began humming quietly under his breath. It was the same tune Tom had heard him humming before—the sea shanty, but with some slight variants to it. It made him wonder again where exactly the Corsair was from.
The Corsair was surprised by Tom’s inquiry. He lit his cigar and considered the question as a waiter placed his cognac on the table. “My family are from all over the place. And I traveled a lot as a child.” He pulled deeply on the cigar, and the end flared brightly. Tom waited in expectant silence.
“My father was Italian,” said the Corsair after a while. “My mother was from the French Republic of North America, from Boston, but the rest of her family were from France.
“I spent my early life in Europe—a few years in Florence, a few in Avignon, some time with my father’s second cousins in Bavaria; and I traveled all across America with my mother. And then, of course,” he added, sotto voce, “I was at Beaufort’s. You do a lot of travel while studying there. And I have done a lot since. The students at the school come from all over the world, so after a while your accent tends to become somewhat… neutral. Perhaps ‘global’ is a better way to describe it. And as you will also come to learn, an aptitude to impersonate accents is an important part of the syllabus.”
Tom thought back to the way the Corsair had spoken to Borthwick. His accent then had been a perfect aristocratic English.
“You’ll study many different languages, and there is a strong focus on perfecting both accent and diction,” continued the Corsair. “But it means that your own accent tends to drift a little.”
The leaden feeling had returned to Tom’s stomach. How was he ever going to fit in at the school? He knew only a few phrases of French, and as for other languages—he hardly had a word. Forget learning how to be a master thief; it was going to be a big enough challenge for him to learn to speak German and Italian and Spanish and who knew what else—Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Norwegian, Swedish, Portuguese? “What language do they speak at the school, then?”
“Mainly English.”
Tom felt relieved. “Why not French?”
“We are not of the Empire.”
Tom frowned. “I don’t know if that answers my question.”
The Corsair smiled. “Empires come and go, Tom. I was born a Frenchman, but I became a Shadow Thief. I have no language, no country of my own. I have the Shadow League and my brothers and sisters within it. We speak all the languages of the world, but it was decided long ago that the language of the League would be English. It is the same for the assassins in Japan, the politicos in Italy, and the spies in America. We all speak English to one another. And, I suppose, the more that language dies away, the more exclusive to us it becomes.”
Tom pondered this for a while. “So the language thing will be okay—it’s just everything else I have to worry about?”
“You’ll catch up,” murmured the Corsair. “Tenderfoots are all novices. Inexperienced. Everyone starts out the same.”
Tom looked confused. “What are Tenderfoots?”
The Corsair rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, I forget how little you know about the school.” He cast his eyes around to ensure no one could overhear them and then leaned forward, speaking in a whispered growl. “The school is divided into six different categories of achievement.”
“Six years, got it,” said Tom.
“Not years, Tom,” the Corsair corrected. “Achievement. Every new student starts out as a first-grade Tenderfoot, no matter their age. First-grade Tenderfoots become second-grade Greenhorns, then third-grade Fledglings, then fourth-grade Colts, then fifth-grade Initiates, and then, finally, sixth-grade Apprentices, before they graduate as Shadow Thieves.
“You tend to graduate through the grades with your peers, but if you fail too many modules, you have to repeat the year. As the years progress, the harder the modules become, so there can sometimes be a bit of an age mix between the grades. If you fail too often, however, you risk being removed from the school—if you haven’t been killed by your own incompetence during an exam or an assignment. Since you aren’t a legacy pupil with a powerful family to look after you, I would advise against failure. If you’re removed from the school, it will be in a permanent fashion, if you understand me.”
Tom swallowed. “They would kill me?”
“Not exactly. You would only face death if you fail as a fully-fledged Shadow Thief—and even then, only if you fail spectacularly. But if you were expelled from the school, they would wipe your mind.”
Tom’s jaw dropped.
The Corsair continued. “You’d be admitted to a League-run psychiatric institution, where they would put you through a series of procedures to scramble your memories. You’d recover in a few years. Probably. I know it sounds harsh, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“What could be worse than death or having your brain scrambled?”
“Incarceration in the Shadow League prison, that’s what.”
“That can’t be worse.”
“It’s a terrible place, Tom,” said the Corsair, his face grave. “It’s called the Penumbra. It’s a maximum-security facility. And think just how maximum it has to be to keep the world’s greatest criminals securely imprisoned. Its inmates are from all walks of criminal life within the League, and not just incompetents. Thieves, Assassins, Spies, and Politicos who have failed the League or betrayed them in some way. Rebelling against the League usually means instant death; but sometimes the leaders want a more lingering punishment, so they send the offenders to the Penumbra. Forever. Keeping them under lock and key, never to see daylight or breathe fresh air again. Just a tiny, windowless cell, deep underground. That, to me, would be a fate worse than death, no?”
Tom felt cold. He thought the Rawlock had been hell. Yet this sounded infinitely worse.
“This really is your last chance, Tom,” said the Corsair, fixing him with an unblinking stare. “If you want to back out, now is the time.” He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat again and examined it. “But once you’re in, you’re in for life.”
Tom’s lips were pursed tight, and his eyes were wide. But he nodded. “I told you: I’m in,” he said. Then he frowned. “But what about Morris? You said he left. How did he do it?”
“Morris… was very clever. The League believed he was dead. I suspected otherwise, but he hid himself very well, and it took me a long time to track him down. I wanted to help him… but he didn’t want help from me—or from anyone associated with the League. So I respected that and I let him be. I can, however, help you.”
Tom wondered, not for the first time, how Morris would feel about him joining the very world that he had done so much to leave behind. Was there not a warning in that? Perhaps. But Morris had told such wondrous stories about the school—there had been light and energy in his words; there had been love there too. Tom had felt it. Morris couldn’t have told those stories in that way if he had hated the place that much.
Besides, what other options did Tom really have?
He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the card the Corsair had given him—identical to the one Morris had kept for all those years and used as a bookmark.
“Why does this say ‘orphans preferred’? You said the school is full of legacy pupils.”
“Shadow families keep the secret of the school and the League to themselves, but it’s risky to recruit someone from the outside world, especially if they have family they might be tempted to tell. There’s not a secret family member of yours that my research failed to identify, is there?”
“No,” said Tom flatly. “I never knew my parents. I don’t even know where they were from, what their names were… nothing.”
The Corsair nodded.
There was a painful ache in Tom’s chest. He had never talked about his parents to anyone other than Morris. He knew nothing about his father, but it had been suggested to him that his mother came from North Africa, possibly Egypt. The few records of her in the Rawlock were extremely sketchy and gave no indication as to why, wounded and pregnant, she had sought refuge in a place like that. Her choice had condemned him as much as it had saved him.
The doctor who had delivered him was named Thomas Beacham and the guard on duty in the infirmary was Gerald Morgan. They had combined these names on the birth certificate of the newborn child, the mother having died without identifying herself—and leaving behind almost nothing that could help in doing so.
Theories had abounded in the infirmary. The clothing she had been wearing was very fine: a cashmere coat and a dress with labels from Paris, a luxurious cotton scarf with Arabic calligraphy, and shoes with a label for a boutique in Alexandria. Dr. Beacham, a worldly man, had declared that the scarf was an Egyptian khayamiya, a kind of ornamental blanket, and he suspected that the dead woman was also Egyptian. She had a tattoo on her wrist of a teardrop-shaped hoop with a cross underneath: an ankh, apparently, although Tom didn’t know what that was or what it meant. But it seemed to confirm her origins to Dr. Beacham.
It was soon decided at the Rawlock that Tom’s mother had been a thieving servant for a grand Egyptian family—trying to set up a new life for herself and her baby, no doubt. But of course, you can’t go around shooting people—even thieves—particularly if they’re pregnant, which was why the crime was never reported… and therefore why the police had never come looking for her.
Tom had heard all these stories and theories hundreds of times. Dr. Beacham had swaddled him in the khayamiya, and the blanket became his comforter—until one dreadful day when he was working in the yard, crushing animal bones into meal to make fertilizer. One particularly putrid consignment of bones caused him to vomit, and the Pitbull punished him for “wasting his breakfast.” Tom had previously seen the Pitbull force inmates to eat what they had vomited, but on this occasion he retrieved the khayamiya from Tom’s cell and set fire to it in the middle of the yard. Tom was so shocked he didn’t even cry. The wound was too profound. He just stood in silent horror as the only physical link to his mother withered away to ash. Was she Egyptian, like the khayamiya? Was she really a thief? He would never know.
A sense of self was a luxury Tom wasn’t afforded in the Rawlock. But in the years since his escape, he had become acutely aware of how little he knew about his origins. He came to see himself as a sheet of paper, like the old newspapers Morris used to create origami animals to sell on street corners: words smudged and illegible, their original story lost, but a sheet that was folding itself into something new. What shape it would finally take, Tom still didn’t know. He was simply folding, becoming, and wishing all the time that he could read those lost words.
