“What do you mean it’s not there?” Bartholomew had shouted as loud as he dared at his father.
“Just that,” his red-wigged father had replied, stomping his foot, “the treasure isn’t there. Not that I expected it to be hidden beneath the parlor, mind you. But some clue or map to the treasure’s location should most definitely have been on or near Lindsay Morgan’s person.”
“What do we do now?”
“We wait!” his father had shouted back.
“WAIT FOR WHAT?” Bartholomew had screamed as his father stomped away. But since then, there had been no more shouting, only silent plotting, stewing, and slow-boiling frustration at the top of his tower, glaring out over the colorless, angry sea and the black rocks drowning in the tide. Not only had Bartholomew refused to speak during that entire time, he had refused to eat as well, and he had grown more pale and gaunt than ever before. Beneath his raven-black hair and his piercing blue eyes, the young captain looked more ghoul than man.
“All of our carefully laid plans,” he muttered to himself occasionally, often followed by either “ruined!” or “all for nothing!” Then he would shake his head and furrow his brow and go back to brooding and glaring.
However, on the seventh day, it finally seemed as though whatever Count Cromier had been waiting for had finally happened. Up the narrow steps that circled the inside of the gray tower one of the servants came, stepping out into the mist, a candle rack in hand, to tell Bartholomew his father requested his presence, and most urgently.
“All for nothing,” Bartholomew muttered to himself, shoving past the servant with a grunt and skulking down the stairs, storming through the mirthless halls of Shade Manor to his father’s study.
Yet as daring and dangerous as Bartholomew Cromier was, and however dark his mood, he forced a calm veneer over his face when he arrived at the study door, for the only person more devious than Bartholomew was his father, Count Cromier – the Red Count. Bartholomew paused at the doorway and took a steadying breath to cool his temper. Unfortunately for Bartholomew however, a shrill yet mannish voice shattered his delicate calm the moment he stepped inside.
“Oh, hullo Barty!” Margarita Morgan shrieked upon Bartholomew’s appearance. Bartholomew only hoped that the slamming door behind him and the roaring fire in the hearth drowned out the sound of his teeth, which were grinding. “So good to see you again, Barty!” Margarita bellowed, hoisting up a nearly empty bottle of wine. “Let’s toast the young man’s health!”
Even more infuriating to Bartholomew than their failure to find the great treasure was the knowledge that ever since Lindsay Morgan’s demise, Dame Margarita had been living like a queen in Morgan Manor, ceaselessly throwing opulent parties and gossiping all days of the week with her ridiculous friends from London. And when she wasn’t doing so at Morgan Manor, which was bad enough for Bartholomew, she was doing it here at Shade Manor, which was worse. She sat on a divan near the fireplace, dressed in a finely made gown from Austria, a silver tiara atop her blonde wig, and jangling jewels garishly draped about her plump neck and wrists. Bartholomew was about to spew some nastiness in retort to Margarita’s toast when a graveled voice rumbled from the study’s desk.
“I have good news, my son.”
Bartholomew’s father sat at his dusty old blackwood desk, a mess of ancient books and tattered scrolls strewn before him, the drawn curtains blackening the room’s shadows into pitch, and the sharp firelight deepening the color of the Count’s red curls into a dark, blood red.
“Sit down.”
Bartholomew skulked to his father’s desk and slumped into a leather chair, trying his best to hide the murderous fury in his eyes.
“What I’m about to tell you is secret information from the King’s own network of spies,” the Count said, tracing the purple scar on his face with his finger.
“O-o-oh,” cried Margarita from the divan. “How I love secrets! Do go on, Cromie, go on then!”
Bartholomew rolled his eyes. He hated when Margarita called his father ‘Cromie’ almost as much as he hated when she called him ‘Barty.” “Perhaps we should wait, father,” Bartholomew said with a sigh, flicking his eyes twice in Margarita’s direction.
“Oh,” the count replied, smiling crookedly. “I wouldn’t worry about that.” And then, right on cue, a loud thunk echoed from the divan. Bartholomew looked over just in time to see Dame Margarita slump back against the wall and fall directly to sleep, snoring loudly. “She’s been enjoying herself all afternoon,” said the Count, sneering. “I think we have our privacy now.”
The Red Count, named so as much for his murderous reputation as his distinctive wig, leaned across his desk, locking eyes with his pale, dark-haired son. “Robert S. North has been spotted in England. Headed for London.”
Bartholomew stared back at his father. “Really? That’s useful.” Bartholomew could contain his rage no longer and finally exploded. “Who the devil is Robert S. North, and how does it affect our current predicament one whit?”
Instead of yelling back, the Count merely twisted his crooked grin once again, leaning back in his chair, stroking his jagged scar. “Robert S. North is the given name of Dread Steele, Lord of the Pirates.”
“Dread Steele?” Bartholomew’s yell faded into a startled whisper. “Dread Steele is in England?”
A cold wind swept through an open window somewhere deep inside Shade Manor, blowing into the study, shivering the fire, and crawling a chill up Bartholomew’s back. Dread Steele was a name that all those who lived on the coasts of England knew well, knew and associated with fear.
“The most terrible pirate to ever sail the seas,” Cromier said quietly, staring off into the whipping flames. “A master of disguise, and a brilliant swordsman and shot. It is said he holds influence over the winds on the seas, that he knows more than a man should about black magic, and even that he has allied himself with a talking Raven he uses as his spy. I have seen enough, and know enough of the man, not to doubt these tales.”
“Father, please!” Bartholomew snorted. “That’s all bog water… isn’t it?”
“As brave as you may be my son,” Count Cromier said softly. “You have not seen some of the things I have seen in this world, powerful forces at work.”
“Well, as fascinating as this all is, father, what does it have to do with us?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Bartholomew?” Count Cromier leaned across the desk once more, the firelight wreathing his hideous scar in red. “Dread Steele has come for the treasure!”
“Dread Steele knows of Lindsay Morgan’s treasure?” Bartholomew wondered aloud.
“Yes, he does,” the Count confirmed, sinking back into his chair, into the shadows. “What you must remember my son, is that Lindsay Morgan and Dread Steele were the fiercest of foes. Their hate was borne many years ago, when they were still young men. But you see, they know each other – as brothers might know each other. Add to that the fact that Dread Steele is notorious for his ability to find treasure so carefully hidden that no man alive should be able, and one arrives at one inescapable conclusion.”
“Dread Steele knows where the treasure is hidden,” Bartholomew finished the thought, his icy blue eyes flashing.
“Possibly,” Cromier confirmed. “Or he is searching as we are; but either way, he may have a clue or piece of information that we lack, one that we need.”
“What do you want me to do, father?” Bartholomew asked, deathly solemn, his hand gripping his sword handle tightly.
“Go to London. Do what no man, not even Lindsay Morgan could do in all his life. Capture Dread Steele. And then, together, we will make him talk.”
“He would not join us?” Bartholomew asked. “If we offered to split the treasure?”
“No!” Count Cromier half laughed and half shouted. “Trust me, my son, there is no sharing this treasure. It is too great to be possessed by more than one.”
“What will you do in the meantime?”
“I will go back
to Morgan Manor and dredge the forest and the river. I have been thinking of late; only one person escaped our clutches that night, dead as he may have ended upon his flight.”
“The boy? James Morgan?”
“Yes, doubtful as it may be, it is possible the boy has escaped with the secret to a treasure more vast than he could ever realize. And if I find young James Morgan alive, he will tell us what he knows, or he will wish that he had died that night. I care not for the cost to my fortune or my soul, one way or another that treasure will be ours!”
NINETEEN
icking a lock is an art, Jim,” Peter said matter-of-factly as he and as his two brothers, Lacey, and Jim stood outside a locked warehouse door in an empty alley. After a few weeks of picking pockets and honing his skills on the streets, Jim, according to the Ratts, was ready to graduate to breaking and entering. It was now November and quite cold outside. A few flurries even fluttered through the gray air and down to the street, lightly frosting the little clan’s shoulders and heads. “It’s like painting a picture,” Peter continued.
“You’ve never painted a picture, Peter,” George said, crossing his arms in front of him, the look on his face letting his brother know just how much better he thought his class on pickpocketing had been.
“I KNOW that, George!” Peter stamped one foot and growled. “I’m just saying it’s like that. It was an example. Now I’m teaching this class, so piss off!”
“Well it was a poor example, that’s all I’m saying.”
“If you can give a better one then you pick this lock and teach Jim how to do it!”
At this George just sighed and rolled his eyes, but he never moved for the lock and promptly shut his mouth. Jim imagined this was because it was George himself that had said there may not be a better lock pick in all of Europe, much less England, than Peter Ratt. Peter had a particular sort of mechanically inclined mind, one that loved nothing more than to take everything in the world apart, put it all back together, and master their workings from the inside out.
“Anyway, Jim,” Peter said – nearly shouting Jim’s name to make sure that Paul and George would know he wasn’t talking to them. “Picking a lock is like painting a picture because you’ve got your… er… paper thing that you paint on,” he pointed to the locked door.
“Canvas,” Jim corrected, but not in the snide way he would have a couple of months ago.
“Right, canvas! And then you’ve got your brushes.” Peter pulled out a small fold of leather from his back pocket and flipped it open. Inside were several thin strips of shiny metal, some short and straight like pins, others crooked, twisted, or even curled around in little twirls, all of them gleaming in the gray light of the winter day. Jim’s eyes widened when he saw the little tool set, for it was by far the nicest things the Ratts owned.
“Those are brilliant!” Jim said. “Where did you nick those beauties?”
“Actually didn’t nick them at all,” Peter said proudly.
“He won them,” Paul added.
“Some bloke on Windsor Avenue once said that he was greatest lock pick in all of England, and that he had developed a tool for every type of lock ever made,” George explained. “People challenged him left and right for years, but with no success. Then Peter came along.”
“Boys,” Lacey sighed as the Ratts and Jim stood there regarding one another with a certain pride. “Can we just get on with it already? I, for one, am freezing!”
“Right then,” Peter agreed, turning to the locked door. “The key to opening any lock, Jim—” Peter turned back and winked to his brothers, who laughed ridiculously at his clever pun as Lacey groaned and hopped up and down to stay warm, “—is knowing how it works inside. That lets you know how to trick the lock into opening without the key. When you know where to place the pins and apply the proper leverage …” He stuck the pins into the lock hole, gave a neat little twist, and smiled at the sound of a loud click. “And in we go!” Peter turned the knob and threw open the door with a wide grin splayed across his face.
“That was excellent!” Jim clapped with enthusiasm but was nearly bowled over by Lacey, who was tired of all of the boys’ self-congratulations and, like any sensible person, just wanted to get warm. “But what is this place anyway?” Jim asked as they all stepped inside.
His question was answered as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The clan now stood inside a warehouse; a warehouse for locked chests, locked cabinets, and locked drawers, all stacked in rows and piled high in columns, lit by dust-dancing streams of gray, winter light. Jim snuck a glance at Peter to find a greedy gleam in his eyes. This was a lock pick’s heaven.
The little Ratt clan practiced all morning and into the afternoon. After several stuck and pinched fingers, Jim and Lacey had finally gotten their first locks open, which so pleased everybody that they decided to call it a day. Out they snuck from the rear of the warehouse, as usual leaving all the unlocked chests and drawers wide open. The poor owner of the place often came into work to inspect his wares after these little sessions, and swore to his wife that it was the ghost of his old business partner, come back to torment him for removing his name from the sign outside after he died.
Not to be outdone by the particularly well-taught class on lock picking by his brother, George, on the way home, demonstrated the rather tricky Russian Nose Pick n’ Flick technique for distracting an unsuspecting mark. It was a somewhat sticky method that Lacey called entirely disgusting, but George effectively employed it to relieve a rather grumpy and ill-tempered merchant of a gold chain from around his neck.
When the children arrived home and started a fire with a couple of pieces of coal in their makeshift stove, George took his newly acquired necklace, a distinguished cross dangling at the end, and tossed it into the drawer with the various other coins and knickknacks they had thieved throughout the month, all awaiting “sharing” with the King of Thieves at the upcoming court.
“One more for the chief,” George said with satisfaction.
“And one more day closer to finally getting out of this dreadful place,” Lacey said, inching closer to the stove for warmth.
“You, know, I’ve wonder why the king don’t have us steal more regular money,” Paul asked to no one in particular. “I think we could save up faster that way, but all he really seems to care about are them necklaces and pendants.”
“I guess they fetch a higher price than coins,” Peter mused.
Just then, a candlelight went off in Jim’s brain and he suddenly recalled what he had seen while hanging upside-down by the ankle outside of the pawnshop window only a week or two before.
“It’s because he’s looking for one necklace in particular,” Jim said aloud.
The Ratt brothers stared at Jim, quite surprised, and Lacey said: “Now Jim Morgan, you’ve just gotten here. How could you possibly know what the King of Thieves is looking for? Nobody even knows where he goes in between sessions of court.”
“I do,” Jim said. “He goes to the little pawnshop on Barque Street with the short round fellow from the gypsy’s country, and he doesn’t care a fig about the coins, he tosses them aside and compares all the necklaces to a picture of one in a book, because he’s looking for that particular one. And he has my box there too! I must have forgotten all about it after Red and the Dragons roughed me up, but I saw it all while I was hanging from the ivy that day we ran from Butterstreet and his lot!”
Jim got very excited as he told the story. Hardly a month ago he would never have believed he stood even a chance of getting his box back from the King of Thieves, but his new friends’ training had given him a taste of success, and Jim was beginning to believe that all kinds of things were possible. His energy immediately infected the Ratts, as it tends to infect all little boys who are in love with adventure and intrigue, and, with mischief gleaming in their eyes, they leapt over to where Jim sat.
“A pawnshop!” George said, smacking his own head with his hand. “That makes perfect sense. That’s
where he could trade the necklaces for money for our escape!”
“But if he’s really planning nothing but our escape, why is he bent on finding that one particular necklace?” Lacey asked, a fair bit of grownup skepticism in her voice.
“It must be something he lost before,” Peter said. “And he’s trying to get it back.”
“Or maybe it’s an extra valuable necklace,” Paul suggested. “One that’ll fetch loads more than all of the others put together!”
“I don’t think he wanted it for money, Paul,” Jim said, though in truth he knew for a fact what the old king wanted with it: for his father’s treasure. But for one reason or another, Jim kept this to himself. “He seemed rather keen on finding it and keeping it for himself, and the little man with the gypsy accent was quite upset that they hadn’t found it yet. He had a book that seemed to tell all about it, and had a picture of it, too. If we could see that book, we could know why he was looking for it.”
“Fat lot of good that’ll do us,” said George, who started laughing. His brothers joined in, slapping their knees. “A book, he says! Then we could know!”
“All I can think to do with a book is toss it in our stove for a little extra heat,” Peter said.
Jim felt a bit stung by this sudden mockery, as excitement had been building up within him. He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling. “What’s so funny about that? And why in blazes would you want to toss a book into a stove?”
“Because, Jim,” said Lacey, as tired of the Ratts’ uproarious laughter as Jim. “None of us can read. No one in the entire king’s court can read except for a few of the Owls, so even if we got that stupid book, the only place we could go to get someone to read it for us would be a church.”
“And they’d toss us back into St. Anne’s orphanage or school the moment we popped up on their doorstep,” Paul added, shaking his head.
Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves Page 12