The Hush (21 page)

‘Heard 'em hum the recital backwards when they dragged me in and out of the Hush in the first place.' Sam shrugged. ‘Even with your brains all jumbled, it's the sort of thing that sticks in your head once you get your bearings back.'

Chester swallowed back a queasy twist of disappointment. Sam's case looked pretty unique. His father wouldn't be able to escape that way.

He turned to Susannah. ‘And you?'

She hesitated. ‘Well, they kept us in a cage. I've always been flexible. And I'm good at climbing.'

Chester tried to picture it: a cage in the Hush, brimming with hundreds of prisoners. He pictured Susannah clambering up to the roof, searching for a way out, for a gap between the bars, a patch of metal malleable enough to twist aside …

‘A few people escaped with me,' Susannah said, ‘but not many. Most were too broken – in their bodies and their minds. Only the fittest and the strongest made it.
Even then, I spent days alone in the Hush before I figured out how to break back into the real world. I lost track of the others in the dark … I'm guessing most of them died of dehydration before they learnt the trick.'

Chester nodded. His coffee was cold now, but he clutched the cup more tightly than ever. He imagined his father, climbing out into the blackness and wandering, alone and dying, in the unnatural mists and rain of the Hush …

No. That couldn't have happened to his father. His father was too old and his arthritis too painful. He would still be in the cage, withering in agony as the days stretched on.

He felt like vomiting.

‘I can't do this Conservatorium job,' he said, finally. ‘I can't waste time stealing jewels. I have to find my father.'

Silence. He could sense Susannah looking at him but he didn't want to raise his eyes. He didn't want to see her disappointment or hear the accusations of broken promises.

‘I know,' she said quietly. ‘And that's why you're going to help us on this job.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘There's one last thing we haven't told you. The recruiters are the highest ranks of Songshapers. Their headquarters are in Weser City. And their prison in the Hush? It's right in the middle of the Conservatorium.'

‘You mean …?'

Susannah nodded. ‘This job was never about the money, Chester. We don't want to rob the Conservatorium of its jewels or its gold. We want to rob it of its Silencers. Of Penelope. Of your father.'

She took a deep breath. ‘Chester, this isn't a jewellery heist. It's a prison break.'

For days, they churned through the darkness.

The
Cavatina
wound slowly westward, keeping close to the railway line as it rambled along in the direction of Weser City. A mile became a hundred miles; a hundred became a thousand. The world was black. The Hush was silent.

Chester roamed the ship alone, his mind wrapped up in visions of a metal cage with screaming bodies trapped inside, weakened, weary, half-starved. He imagined his father as just a body, slumped on the ground, his face pale with exhaustion as he wrapped his knuckles around the bars and screamed and screamed until he fell into a final twitching collapse and –

No
, Chester told himself.
I'm going to save him.

Sometimes he helped Susannah with her captain's duties in her office. She showed him her logbook of income and expenditure. Chester tried to keep his voice steady and casual but their proximity in the tiny office made his stomach flip. Susannah's hair fell in messy ringlets across the desk and she smelt faintly of cinnamon, which was her favourite topping for her morning oatmeal.

Chester forced himself to concentrate on the logbook, clenching his fists under the desk. He noticed a series of strange notes in the expenditure column, marked by an asterisk instead of a word like
food
or
medicine
.

‘Donations,' Susannah said. ‘To the poor.'

Chester stared at the column for a moment and felt his eyes widen. So much money. The gang had given away
so much
money. How many lives had they saved with their donations?

For a moment, Chester wondered if they were doing the right thing. If they risked breaking into the Conservatorium, the Nightfall Gang might be killed or captured. They might never pull off another job and never donate more money to the poor of Linus or Bremen. People might starve who otherwise might have been fed. In the long run, more lives might be saved if they gave up on this suicidal mission at the Conservatorium.

But when Chester imagined his father screaming in that cage, his stomach knotted with new resolve. Perhaps it was selfish, but he had to save his father, no matter the cost.

Sometimes Chester sat with Travis at the kitchen table as he drilled Chester on the life experiences of Frederick Yant, the invented persona he was to take on. Travis forged identity documents by examining the papers from Charles Yant's vault, testing six different inks until he found a colour that matched, then adorning a blank sheet of paper with perfect calligraphy.

As he worked, Travis boasted of his various romantic conquests. Barmaids, young ladies of Weser, and farmers' daughters from a dozen minor towns. He spoke in a loud
whisper, as though these stories were naughty secrets that shouldn't be divulged. Chester tried to mimic Travis's conspiratorial tone, and deliberately turned the conversation back to Travis whenever it veered uncomfortably close to Chester's own lack of romantic experience.

Eventually, though, Travis brought up the subject that Chester had been hoping to avoid.

‘I see the way you look at her,' Travis said slyly, as he pulled a dripping stamp from his fresh wax seal on a document.

‘Her?'

‘The captain, of course. It's painfully obvious.'

Chester's face burned. He stammered for a moment then looked back down at the table. After a few awkward seconds, he steered the conversation back to Travis's pursuit of a buxom barmaid in Delos. The moment seemed forgotten but from then on, Chester felt a little awkward in Travis's presence, as though the older boy was secretly laughing at his every word.

Of all his new jobs, Chester's favourite was helping Dot in the engine room. In the steam and smoke and screaming metal, he felt almost invisible. It was hot and exhausting and his body ached by the end of every session. He loved it. The confines of the
Cavatina
were beginning to feel like a prison and it was sheer relief to wear his body into exhaustion. It helped him feel alive; it reminded him that this whole trip wasn't just a hazy dream.

But even with all these jobs – and the endless other chores that filled his hours, from cleaning the bathroom to scrubbing the dishes – Chester felt somewhat useless on
the
Cavatina
. He didn't have a single job that was solely his own.

You're not useless
, he told himself.
Your role just hasn't started yet.

His role, of course, was the audition. Now that his goal to find his father had aligned with the gang's own scheme, Chester was beginning to realise what he'd signed up for. It was beginning to feel real, and he couldn't believe that the audition was under a fortnight away.

Everything rode on his ability to impress the Songshapers, to win a place at the Conservatorium. It was the most prestigious institution in Meloral, with an entrance process so difficult that children who'd grown up with expensive lessons and professional tutors wept in failure. Chester thought he could beat them? It was ridiculous. He pictured himself on the audition stage, the flute against his lips, an off-key note squeaking into the silence.

Despite Dot's lesson, he still couldn't control his connection to the Song. If anything, it was growing more compulsive. For hours each night, Chester practised with the flute to ensure there would be no off-key squeaks. But every time he played well on the instrument, that
dee duh, dee duh, dee duh
of rhythmic breaths slurped down into his throat and he felt the tingle of the Song in his veins. In the Hush, its tune was often distorted, as though he was trapped at the bottom of a black lake, hearing the howl of the wind above the surface.

But every day the wind grew stronger.

If Chester stood on that audition stage and connected to the Song, he would put the entire gang in jeopardy.
And still, he couldn't bring himself to tell them the truth. If they rejected him, he would be back at the beginning, with no way to find his father.

At dinner one night, Chester took a nervous slurp of stew and placed down his spoon. ‘I'm going to need a fiddle.'

The others looked at him.

‘What?'

‘A fiddle. I can't pass this audition on the flute – I'm not good enough. I don't even know if I can do it on a fiddle, but it's the best chance I've got.'

‘You should have mentioned it earlier,' Susannah said. ‘We could have picked one up in Linus.'

‘We'll need to stop in Thrace anyway,' Travis said. ‘I should post these application documents as soon as possible, to ensure they reach the Conservatorium before you arrive.'

Chester's throat tightened.
Thrace?
‘That's my home town,' he said, trying to keep his voice even. ‘I mean, that's where I grew up.'

‘It's also the largest town between here and Weser,' Travis said.

Chester nodded. He tried not to look too affected by the news, but it was hard to maintain a casual expression. He took another gulp of stew to keep his mouth busy, and sloshed the warm mush between his teeth.

Thrace
. He was going back to Thrace.

He hadn't been home in months, not since his father had disappeared. Chester had sworn that he would never return until he'd rescued his father, but surely this wasn't breaking his vow – he had to visit for the sake of the rescue.

Another thought hit him.

In Thrace, he would find Goldenleaf.

‘All right,' he said. ‘If you give me some money, I know where to buy a fiddle.'

Susannah gave him a shrewd look. ‘The shop where you used to work?'

Chester nodded. ‘There's a fiddle there I carved …'

He trailed off. How could he explain how he felt about Goldenleaf? It wasn't just wood and string: to him, it was so much more.

‘You sure that's a good idea?' Susannah said. ‘If the sheriff in Hamelin put out a name and description for you, word might've reached Thrace by now. Locals could be on the lookout, if the reward's big enough.'

Chester's stomach twisted. The idea that his old neighbours might sell him out for a sack of gold was nauseating. He thought of the old lady at the bakery, the men who sold meat in the market square. He thought of Mr Ashworth, with his thin white eyebrows and drooping skin. He pictured them at the sheriff's office, eyes gleaming and fingers grasping at the gold as they reported seeing Chester on the street …

They wouldn't, would they? They would know they were selling him to the executioner's block …

But they also had children, parents, friends. Folks with empty bellies and hunger in their eyes. If it meant
selling out an old acquaintance for the sake of filling those bellies – well, not everyone would have the guts to refuse. Especially if they'd heard what Chester had done. If they knew he was a blasphemer who'd connected to the Song, they might decide he'd earned his execution.

‘I'll be careful, Captain,' he said. ‘I can disguise myself, or –'

‘No,' Susannah said. ‘Pick another shop, Chester. Somewhere the staff don't know you.'

‘But my fiddle –'

‘Watch it, Hays,' Sam cut in. ‘You don't get to argue with the captain.'

Chester flushed. He nodded, muttered an apology, and looked back down at the table. It was sometimes hard to remember that Susannah was in charge of things. She seemed so friendly and open to discussion that he had let himself get a little carried away. But Sam was right. There was a line between discussion and disobedience, and he had almost crossed it.

He couldn't mention the real reason that he wanted Goldenleaf so badly. If he had his favourite fiddle – with its reassuring weight, how it felt against the crook of his neck, the way it rested on his shoulder – he wouldn't have to focus on getting to know the instrument like he had to with the flute, or with any other fiddle. With the reassuring weight of Goldenleaf in his hands, he could focus on finally controlling his Music and resisting the lure of the Song …

Chester bit his lip. He knew that he should tell them. He should admit the truth, admit to Susannah that he was
randomly connecting to the Song whenever he tried to play. But he couldn't do it. If Chester hoped to save his father, he had to keep his role in the gang. And if he hoped to keep his role in the gang, he couldn't let them know he was a liability.

‘Right,' Susannah said. ‘When we get to Thrace, we'll go in and out fast. Sam, Travis and I will head for the post office to post the identity documents and to do a money drop in the beggar districts. Dot, you're a musician – you can help Chester pick a new fiddle.'

Dot nodded, a distant look in her eyes. ‘I have a theory that instruments have souls, you know,' she said. ‘And different keys bring out different emotions in those souls. When my piano plays C minor, she feels lovesick. When she plays D major, she feels triumphant.'

‘What's your point?'

‘Well,' Dot said slowly, ‘if an instrument has a soul, perhaps it has a soulmate. I know I can never play another piano with as much feeling as my own. If Chester feels a bond with this particular fiddle, perhaps –'

‘No,' Susannah said. ‘If the shop owner recognises Chester, he could shoot him dead for the reward money as soon as you step inside.'

‘But I could buy it for him, Captain,' Dot said. ‘If Chester points it out to me, I could –'

Susannah shook her head. ‘Too suspicious. If it's been sitting there for months with no interest from other customers …' She turned to Chester. ‘We can't risk drawing attention to anything related to you. I want you to choose a shop with
no
links to your old life. Understood?'

‘Yes, Captain,' he said.

Chester caught Dot's eye and gave her a tiny nod, trying to indicate his thanks. Dot understood. She knew what it was like to rest her fingers on a set of keys and to
know
– not from logic, but from something deeper – that this was the instrument for her.

‘All right,' Susannah said, after several moments. ‘If no one else has any objections, we should get some rest.'

They rose to gather bowls and cutlery. Chester volunteered to wash the dishes, lingering in the kitchen when the others had left. He wasn't ready for bed. He ran the water – heated by the Music of the engine – over his fingers, and let its warmth trickle across his skin.

He imagined himself walking through Thrace. The sights, the smells, the faces. He imagined Goldenleaf, waiting for him, his fingers on the strings and the music flowing fast and warm as water. A new mastery over his music, and the confidence to finally keep the Song at bay …

And Chester knew, in that moment, that he was going to disobey.