The Hush (16 page)

Travis tilted his head. ‘It's hardly a scintillating role, is it? Guard duty … It sounds awfully like grunt work. You know, Captain, I hardly think the best use of my talents is to –'

‘What else are you going to do?' Susannah said. ‘Let's face it: you're not exactly a hardened criminal.'

‘Of course I am,' Travis said. ‘Why, I got up to all sorts of criminal mischief back at medical school. On one memorable occasion, I even spiked my professor's cologne with aniseed.' He leant forwards with a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The man smelt like a liquorice cake for weeks!'

‘I see,' Susannah said. ‘And what did he do to deserve such a terrible fate?'

‘He confiscated my plum cravat.' Travis looked indignant, as though this was a terrible injustice. ‘I had to wear a green one instead and it clashed terribly with my waistcoat.'

Susannah stared at him.

‘So you see, Captain,' Travis said, ‘it was a clear case of criminality being used in the pursuit of justice. Rather like our goal tonight, don't you think?'

‘Our goal tonight,' Susannah said, ‘is for us to all get home safely. This isn't a night for grandstanding. It's for working together and doing what the job requires. Got a problem with that?'

‘Ah,' Travis said. ‘Well, when you put it like that …'

‘Good,' Susannah said. ‘Chester, got your flute?'

‘Yes, Captain.'

‘You're coming with me. I want a Songshaper and Dot will be busy with the ladder.'

Chester's mouth fell open. ‘But Captain, I don't know if I can –'

‘You'll do fine,' Susannah said. ‘You fought off that Echo, didn't you?'

‘But that was …'

Susannah gave him her sternest look. ‘Is there a problem?'

‘Well, I don't think …' Chester must have read something in Susannah's expression because the end of his objection died on his lips. ‘No, Captain.'

‘Good.'

Susannah peered out between the curtains. Afternoon sun painted the street with light, throwing sharp relief on the opposite building. She gazed at the balcony. The windows. The elaborate stone carvings underneath the sill. This would be a simple job. Easy to sneak in, easy to sneak out. All under the cover of darkness, without the complication of an inside man.

She glanced back at Chester with a twinge of regret for her harsh tone. Of course he would be nervous. Agitated. After all, this was his first real thieving job.

‘You all right?' she said.

He gave her a weak smile. ‘Yeah. Thanks, Captain.'

Susannah nodded, turning back to the window. With a twist in her belly, she remembered her deal with Sam. She tried to convince herself that her concern was merely practical; after all, the auditions were fast approaching. She needed a Songshaper for her plan to work. If Chester proved himself tonight, she could fully initiate him into the gang.

But if he failed …

At sunset, Chester sat in the hotel bathroom. He needed some space from the others. He felt no real agony tonight, just the final cold, dull remnants of the withdrawal ache. As Susannah had predicted, he had survived the worst of the torment already. In another day or so, he should be able to pass his sunsets with barely a shiver.

Assuming he didn't die tonight.

Chester's stomach was tight – not with pain, but with nerves. To distract himself, he examined the gang's burglary trunk, full of knick-knacks for various jobs. His fingers brushed the globe of a sorcery lamp and its melody flared on his skin, as warm and thick as treacle. There were tiny glass devices, ropes and grappling hooks, a communicator globe and a box of costume items including a sturdy silver necklace, a carriage-driver's licence, and even a false moustache.

A trunk of lies
, he thought.
A trunk of secrets.

Tonight, he would be risking his freedom for the Nightfall Gang. He might even be risking his life. And yet, despite everything, Chester still didn't know for sure if they could help him find his father. It was time for some answers.

With the lantern in hand, Chester ventured back into the main hotel room. Sam had gone for a walk to clear his head, while Susannah was out casing Yant's security, leaving the others to keep watch until nightfall. Dot sat by the window, dunking toast into a cup of tea, while Travis trimmed his fingernails. He held them up to the light, frowned a little, then angled the blade to adjust the curve of his thumbnail.

Chester took a deep breath. He forced himself to remember that although he needed them for their information, they needed him too – they needed a Songshaper for the job at the Conservatorium. They owed him information.
Convince the world you're strong
…

‘I want the truth,' he said.

They turned to look at him. Travis leant back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. ‘And I want a mansion with a
fleet of forty pegasi and a tailor on call,' he said. ‘Tragically, we don't all receive what we want, do we?'

‘I have a theory,' Dot said, ‘that –'

‘We don't care about your theories, Dorothy.' Travis waved a careless hand. ‘Honestly, the way you blather on, you'd think I'd joined a public speaking academy instead of a thieving gang.'

Dot stared into her teacup, a quiet little smile on her face. ‘I have a theory,' she said again, ‘that people make demands when they're too afraid to ask favours.'

‘What do you mean?' Chester said, slightly deflated.

‘Well,' Dot said, ‘you could have asked nicely for information about Songshaping and I could have taught you something useful for tonight. Instead, you barge in here and make demands.'

Chester forced himself to shake his head. ‘I don't want information about Songshaping, I want information about the vanishings.'

‘Well, if you want the latter,' Dot said, ‘you'll have to learn the former first and use it to help our gang. Didn't the captain tell you? Nothing comes for free, Chester. Not even when you demand it.'

Chester ran a hand through his hair. He yearned to make an ultimatum:
tell me the truth or I'm leaving
. He could picture it now: his clenched fists, his raised voice, his righteous indignation. But it would be an empty bluff and they both knew it. If he left, he might never find out the truth.

Chester sighed. He threw himself into the chair beside Dot's and placed her sorcery lamp on the table. ‘Teach me,
then. About the Songshaping and stuff, to help your gang. If I'm going to help with this burglary tonight, I need to know what I'm doing.'

Silence.

Travis sliced another little curve off his thumbnail then held his hand to the light. Dot gazed down into her cup of tea.

Request
, Chester thought,
not demand
.

He drew a steady breath. ‘Dot, I'm sorry. Will you please teach me about Songshaping?'

She looked up at him. Her eyes were brown, unlike the pale blue shine of Sam's or Susannah's. She looked very young, all of a sudden. Too young for the measured words that had escaped her lips.

‘Touch that sorcery lamp,' she said, nodding to the one Chester had placed on the table.

Chester hesitated. Was this a trick? He touched the lamp. The warm glass tickled his fingertips and the now-familiar hum of Dot's illumination tune began to trickle through his veins.

‘Feel it?' Dot said.

Chester nodded.

‘Know how to do it yourself?'

He shook his head. ‘I've never been trained. I know no one here believes me but it's true.'

Dot stared at him for a long moment. Her lips curved into a frown and she tilted her head slightly to the side, almost like a bird would. ‘What's your instrument?'

‘I play fiddle,' Chester said. ‘But it got taken when I was arrested in Hamelin. I've only got this.'

He pulled the miniature flute from his pocket. It felt cold against his fingertips. Chester knew he could play it – when he'd worked in the shop, he'd practised every instrument he could get his hands on – but it wasn't the same as his fiddle. His fiddle was warm wood and familiar strings. It was the purr of a cat and the comfort of hot soup. It was home.

‘You don't like the flute?' Dot said.

‘It's just not the same.'

Dot nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘I'm not surprised. Every Songshaper has an instrument that comes most naturally to them. Mine is the piano.'

‘But I've only seen you use a piano accordion.'

‘Well, yes.' Dot smiled. ‘The problem with pianos, you see, is that they're not very portable.'

‘Oh, right.' Chester felt a little foolish. ‘That makes sense.'

‘Anyway,' Dot said, with a wave of her toast, ‘it doesn't matter which instrument you play. Not really. It's easier on your natural instrument, of course, but you can still play Music on another.'

‘And how do you do that?' Chester sat up a little straighter. ‘I mean, what's the difference between playing normal music, and Music with a capital “M”?'

Dot nodded at the sorcery lamp. ‘You tell me.'

Chester paused. ‘I don't know what I'm doing. Sometimes I'm playing a really tricky song, something that makes me tune out the rest of the world, and get lost in the melody …' He trailed off. ‘And then I hear it.'

‘Hear what?'

‘The Song. It's like another melody, underneath everything. It runs through the air, the ground, the stones, the trees. Even people, and furniture, and buildings.' Chester took a slow breath. ‘It's like … like the blood under a person's skin. You can't see it until you've pierced the surface, but it's always there, pumping away, keeping your body alive.'

Dot gave him a cautious look. ‘You need to be careful, Chester. Playing your own Music doesn't mean hijacking the Song. Only the highest-level Songshapers are allowed to –'

‘I know,' Chester said quickly. ‘That's not what I meant. I just …'

Chester trailed off, suddenly nervous. If the gang realised how often he'd connected to the Song – or that his connections were growing more frequent – they might decide it was too risky to include him in their plans.

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘It's just … Well, I think that's the difference between music and
Music
, isn't it? When you play music, you hear the tune. But when you play
Music
, you
feel
the tune.'

Dot's expression relaxed.

‘What?' Chester said.

‘It seems to me, Chester Hays, that you're a lot more ready than you think you are.' She surveyed the window with a slow smile. ‘And tonight, you'll have your chance to prove it.'

The night was hot.

A constant buzz rose from the hotel's taproom below. Noise and music, the clatter of crockery and voices. For a brief moment, Chester wished he was down there, playing his fiddle for coins. Had it only been days since the Barrel o' Gold?

His shirt stuck to his back, as heavy as a woollen blanket. He didn't bother with a coat – all he needed was the flute. He thrust it into his trouser pocket and tried not to let the nerves show on his face.

‘Ready?' Susannah said.

Chester glanced at her. She stood at the window dressed in simple brown trousers, her red hair framed like a fire against the glass. It was dark outside – a truly dark night, with the barest sliver of moon – and she looked a riot of colour against the black windowpane.

He nodded. ‘I'm ready.'

‘Good.'

Dot stared out the window, a distant smile on her lips. ‘I used to like moonless nights,' she said. ‘Good for stories. Good for secrets. Good for sneaking.'

‘All right,' Susannah said. ‘Put out the ladder, Dot.'

Dot kept her gaze pressed close to the glass, piercing their own reflections to stare out into the night. Down in the taproom, the musicians finished their number and there was a roar of shouts and applause.

‘Sometimes I think there must be Echoes out there,' Dot said distantly. She ran a finger through the air, brushing at some unseen strand of shadow. ‘Or the ghosts of Echoes. Like mirror images of the Echoes in the Hush, wandering like streaks of light and shadow through the world …'

‘And sometimes,' Susannah said, a little impatient, ‘I think you should hurry up and put the damn ladder out.'

Dot's ladder was made of wood, but not a wood Chester was familiar with. It shimmered at his touch and from it he caught snatches of broken Music – tiny songs, or the faintest whisper of melody. But when his fingers lingered too long, the songs fell silent.

‘It'll only work for me,' Dot said, as she hooked one end of the ladder to their windowsill. ‘I enchanted it especially. Wouldn't want another Songshaper to get his hands on it and steal the thunder for my invention.'

‘Have you patented it?' Travis said, interested. ‘There's a great deal of money in such things, if you invent something that people will pay to replicate.'

Dot waved a hand. ‘No point now, is there? It was going to be my research project at the Conservatorium until …' She trailed off. ‘Anyway, I can't patent it now. It would mean admitting I've done sorcery without a licence.'

She began to unfold the ladder, clicking out its extending pieces one by one. ‘I was inspired by my accordion, you
see,' she said. ‘It folds up small but extends into a longer strip.'

Susannah pushed the window open. Chester blinked as their reflection vanished, replaced by the black street outside. Hot wind ruffled in through the window, blustering dust and shadow into his face. If he squinted, he could make out the shape of Charles Yant's house, looming on the opposite side of the street.

‘Can you see the balcony?' Dot whispered.

‘Don't ask me,' Travis said, gesturing up at his spectacles. ‘I can hardly see a page in front of my eyes.'

Chester shook his head. ‘No, I … Wait, yes! There it is.'

‘Can you point?'

Chester screwed up his eyes, focused as hard as he could, and pointed through the dark.

‘Don't move,' Dot whispered. ‘I'm going to put out the ladder.'

She retrieved her piano accordion from the bed and hoisted it up into playing position. She opened it with a wheeze of sound and Chester winced. The accordion wasn't exactly a quiet instrument – it was lucky that the taproom downstairs was in such a raucous state or they'd risk alerting half the street.

Dot coaxed the bellows into a dance between her hands. It resembled a lung, inflating and deflating with life and air, and as the instrument breathed, her fingers played. One note then the next. The melody slipped and lingered, pulling on chords with a wheeze and then exploding out into a tinkle of fast-paced notes.

And as the Music played, the ladder rose.

It moved like a snake. It slithered up from its half-unfolded position and unfurled out the window, as though some invisible breeze was carrying it forwards even though the air was heavy, hot and lank. The ladder folded outwards, piece by piece, and the Music flowed, until there was finally the clink of wood on metal.

Dot played a sudden run of tightening notes. She pushed the bellows inwards, compressing and locking the Music around a single final chord, and Chester thought he could almost taste the moment when the ladder locked into place.

Dot released her breath. The room fell silent.

Their ladder stretched across the street, from their own window to Yant's upper balcony.

‘I'll keep an eye on it,' Dot said. ‘I don't know how long the Music will hold it – I'll probably have to replay the melody every few minutes.'

Susannah nodded. ‘You keep an eye on the ladder and Travis can keep watch for dangers.'

Chester knew what was coming. He straightened his back and tried to look confident, just as the captain's gaze swept around to focus on him.

‘Ready?' she said.

Chester's heart throbbed. He stared out the window at the darkness. The ladder. The balcony across the street.

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘I am.'

‘Good,' Susannah said. ‘Then let's go.'

She jumped onto the windowsill, quick and nimble as a cat. Susannah's hair danced in a mass of curls, swaying with the movement of her body. Then she was gone, scurrying along the ladder into the dark.

Chester stared after her for a moment then he gave himself a mental slap. This was a time to focus on the job, not … other things.

He hauled himself onto the windowsill. He was confident on his feet, of course – you had to be, if you wanted to sneak aboard cargo trains. But this was different. Jumping onto a train as it slowed … well, that was all about panic. It was sheer momentum and adrenaline as you leaped up and prayed like hell and grabbed the doorhandles in the certain knowledge that letting go meant death.

But here? Now? This was a different sort of courage. There was no urgency. No rush of a freight train and no roar of its Music or its engine. No blast of steam to scare him into action. There was just the silence of the night, and the weight of baking air. The ladder stretched out before him, a gently swaying bridge across the darkness.

If he fell, his death would not be pretty.

‘You know,' Dot said, after a pause, ‘sometimes I like pretending the whole world is a song and we're all just notes inked onto the stave.' She smiled at him. ‘Nothing real to hurt you, you see? Just lyrics in a lullaby.'

Chester flushed. ‘I'm not scared, Dot.'

‘Never said you were.'

Chester paused then bent his knees and reached out to grab a ladder rung. His upper body stretched out into the night, fingers wrapping around the furthest rung he could reach. With a sharp breath, he trusted his weight to the ladder.

He was suddenly aware, again, of the noise in the taproom below. If a drunken patron stumbled outside and
looked up …
No.
He didn't need something else to worry about. That was beyond his control. All he could do was concentrate on crawling and try not to slip.

The climb was slow. He crawled along the ladder, limb by limb, and fought to ignore how it swayed and tilted when his body weight shifted. Sometimes the ladder rolled to one side and he was left hanging sideways, his heartbeat pattering, his fingers slick with sweat. Then – Dot must have played her Music again – it swung back into a flattish bridge and Chester forced himself to move before his courage deserted him.

Susannah had already finished her crossing. She stood on Yant's balcony, peering back at him along the ladder.

‘Hurry,' she mouthed.

Chester let out a quick breath, suddenly embarrassed. This was ridiculous. If he could hop into a moving cargo train, he could surely negotiate a stationary ladder between two buildings.

He took the rest of the ladder at a faster crawl, a shuffle of lunges, like the unfolding scrunch of a caterpillar. At the balcony rail, he crossed the bars with all the casual ease he could muster. He forced a grin and thrust his hands behind his back, trying to hide the tremble in his fingers.

‘Well,' he said. ‘That was fun.'

Susannah returned his smile but pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Only talk if it's important, all right?'

‘Yes, Captain.'

Susannah turned her attention to the balcony door behind them. It was locked, of course. A heavy padlock dangled from the shutters. Susannah fished a metal pin
from her pocket and jiggled it cautiously inside the lock. It took a minute or so of fiddling, but finally Chester heard a click.

Susannah removed the pin and yanked the padlock open. They crept inside, as slow and quiet as spiders. Chester glanced around the room, alert for any signs of human life, but the room was empty. He let out a slow breath.

Before the balcony door closed, Chester stole one last glance back out into the night. He saw their hotel room across the street, dimly lit by sorcery lamps. Dot and Travis's faces were silhouetted at the window. Then the door shut and they were gone.

Susannah pulled a pair of tiny globes from her pocket and passed one to Chester. It was barely the size of a marble.

‘Hideaway lamp,' Susannah whispered.

She buried her globe in her palm and hummed a quiet run of notes. A tiny beam of light shot from the lamp, which was so small that she could hide the shine by adjusting her fingers. She opened two fingers to make a crack that allowed a single ray to light the path ahead.

Chester closed his palm around his own hideaway lamp and tried to feel the Music inside the glass. He sensed it almost immediately: a quiet run of notes, identical to the newer lamps aboard the
Cavatina
.

‘Dot made these?'

Susannah nodded.

Chester raised the tiny lamp to his lips and hummed the notes as quietly as possible. A faint sheen spilled from
the glass. He could feel the Music now, that familiar hum of a sorcery globe trickling like liquid through his fingers.

They stood in a sitting room. A glass chandelier hung from the ceiling and velvet chairs were scattered around the room. Decorative rugs cascaded over furniture and a crystal chessboard perched on a marble table. The pieces glinted in the shadows.
Crystal
. Just one of those chess pieces was worth more than he'd earn in a year of playing his fiddle in saloons.

Chester jerked his head in the direction of the chessboard. ‘Can we …?'

Susannah shook her head. ‘Might be a honeypot.'

‘A honeypot?'

‘Sometimes people leave valuables in the open, rigged with Musical alarm systems,' Susannah said. ‘Perfect way to catch a lazy thief. Stick your hand in the honeypot and you risk getting stung.'

They crossed the room on tiptoe. The hideaway lamp felt warm in Chester's palm as he let a tiny crack of light escape between his fingers. Unfortunately, the lamp soon proved something of a distraction. As Dot's melody tinkled into his palm, the Music spilled a constant flutter into his flesh. It was enough to make him wish for a pair of gloves.

He stole a look at Susannah but she didn't seem bothered by the Music's touch. Perhaps she was very good at tuning out distractions – or perhaps she just couldn't sense it. The touch came naturally to Chester, like his accidental forays into the Song when he played complicated music. It felt simple. Natural. Just like breathing.

They tiptoed along a winding corridor and down a flight of stairs. Whenever the Music grew too intense, Chester switched his lamp from hand to hand. Each time, it took a good minute for the tune to build up into a crescendo again.

Susannah walked in utter silence and with utter confidence. Actually, Chester decided, she didn't walk. She prowled. She seemed to know instinctively where to step and how to navigate the floorboards without making a creak. She was light on her feet, but determined. A master burglar.

Chester, on the other hand, felt rather flustered. He remembered the time he'd crept downstairs the night before Harvest Parade, to sneak a peek at the present his father had scrimped all year to buy. His stomach had curled the entire trip, both with the fear of discovery and the knowledge he was doing something wrong. Every step was tortured.

Now, those feelings were magnified a thousandfold. If Chester was caught tonight, he wouldn't just face a scolding from his father. He would likely die.

But still, there was something else …

Another feeling. Another emotion. It squirmed below the surface, dipping and diving with every nervous step. What was it? Chester felt tight with frustration, unable to place a label on the twisting in his gut.

Then he realised what it was. Excitement. It was the thrill of being naughty, of taking risks. It was a stupid thing to feel, and probably suicidal. But even so, he couldn't quite fight down that giddy little rush that came
from breaking the rules.
One step, two steps, three steps
… Each step was another risk, another transgression.

They turned another corner and Chester froze.

A guard stood at the end of the corridor.