Читать книгу Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12 - Derek Landy - Страница 23

The First Years were playing basketball on the outside court. Omen could see them from his desk. No magic was allowed, though, so it looked like a pretty dull game. He watched Rubic and Duenna walk across the small courtyard, deep in discussion. Not an unusual sight, the principal and vice-principal talking and walking, and certainly not enough to arouse Omen’s suspicions – but what better recruiters could the anti-Sanctuary have than the leaders of the school?

Omen sat back in his chair. The last class of the day was geography. The teacher’s name was Valance. He was an Adept, though Omen didn’t know which discipline he’d specialised in. So far, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about Valance’s behaviour. He just talked about geography a lot.

Omen cast a surreptitious eye over his classmates. They all looked pretty normal – bored and impatient for the lesson to be over. Apart from Chocolate, but then Chocolate loved geography. She was weird like that.

He smiled to himself. He liked this. Having a secret. Having a mission. Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain had come to him. Not to Auger, not to anyone else. To him. That meant something. A moment like that, he reckoned, a moment that singles a person out, validates their entire existence, gives their life meaning … Well. Something like that could be the start of something amazing.

“Omen.”

Omen looked up. “Wuh?”

“Did you get all that, Omen?” Valance asked, clearly aware that Omen had not. “Could you repeat it back to me?”

“Uh …”

“I don’t believe that’s a part of it.”

“No, sir,” said Omen. “What I meant was … I didn’t actually catch it, sir.”

Valance nodded. “I see. Which part?”

“Sir?”

“Which part didn’t you catch? Or, to put it another way, what’s the last part you did catch?”

Omen wished he didn’t blush so easily. “Uh …”

“Yes, Omen? Was it the volcanic ash part, or the igneous rock part?”

“Volcanic ash, sir.”

“Ah,” said Valance, and Omen knew instantly that it had been a trap. “Even though I’ve spent the entire class talking about the history of the European Union, the last thing you heard was me talking about volcanic ash, which you would have learned about in First Year. What Year are you in now, Omen?”

“Um, Third, sir.”

“So for the last two years you haven’t caught anything I’ve said?”

Omen lowered his head. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Sorry, Omen, what was that?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Omen repeated, louder this time.

“I am shocked,” Valance said. “Shocked and appalled. Could you do me a favour, Omen? Could you try to pay attention? Could you do that for me? Or, at the very least, could you try not to be so obvious when your attention wanders? I am a very sensitive educator, and this will not have done my confidence any good whatsoever.”

Everyone else was enjoying this immensely. Omen kept his eyes on his desk. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” Valance said, and went back to teaching.

Omen copied down the notes and did his best to listen and look attentive, until the bell rang and he joined the others in filing out into the corridor. He dumped his bag in his locker and went walking, hands in his pockets, head down but eyes up.

Searching for the recruiter.

He passed the main gate, glanced at the street beyond. Only Sixth Years were allowed out after the school day had ended. They could spend their afternoons in Roarhaven and only had to be back for Evening Study. Omen, like everyone else, was stuck in here all day, five days a week. Of course, with his parents being the kind of parents they were, he rarely got to go home on the weekends, either. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing. He much preferred walking the school’s empty corridors on a Saturday and Sunday evening than sitting in his bedroom being criticised by his mum and dad.

He wandered for hours, spying. He passed the staffroom where the faculty watched the Global Link on TV, catching up on news of all things magical from around the world. He followed students, listening in to snippets of conversation, and trailed after various teachers, veering off when they started to notice. He enjoyed trailing after Miss Wicked the most. Of course, she was also the quickest to sense him, and his face burned with the heat of a thousand suns as he panicked and turned abruptly left. He walked into a wall and stayed there, like he’d meant to do it all along.

He got to the fourth floor without uncovering any evidence of enemy conspiracies. He saw Peccant coming the opposite way and dived round the corner. He waited there, back pressed flat against the wall. Students passed, ignoring him. He didn’t care about them. All he cared about was that Peccant should pass by, too.

Peccant turned the corner, stopped suddenly and glared. “Mr Darkly.” His voice was deep, his eyes narrow, his face lined. His hair was grey and his suit was tweed. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Omen stepped away from the wall, and tried smiling. “Yes, sir?”

“Where were you this morning, Mr Darkly? You were supposed to be in my class, were you not?”

“I got mixed up, sir.”

“Mixed up?”

“I got my timetable mixed up, sir. I’m really sorry.”

Peccant loomed over him. “And where were you?”

“In a study class, sir.”

“Supervised by whom?”

“Miss Ether.”

“And do you usually have a study class supervised by Miss Ether on a Tuesday?”

Omen swallowed. “No, sir.”

“Who usually supervises your Tuesday study class?”

“Uh … you do, sir.”

“And did it not strike you as odd, Mr Darkly, that I was not supervising this study class? Did it not occur to you that, maybe, you had got your timetable ‘mixed up’? Or did you think that I had suddenly become younger, and a woman?”

“No, sir.”

“None of that struck you as odd?”

“No, I mean, yes, I mean … I didn’t think, sir.”

Peccant leaned down. “There we have it. The crux of the problem. You didn’t think. That’s how you operate, after all, is it not? That’s how you work your way through life.”

Omen swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peccant, mocking his voice. “So polite. So benign. I find it hard to believe you share even the flimsiest strand of DNA with your brother. Even when he’s caught breaking the rules, at least he does it with gusto. There’s no gusto with you, is there?”

“No, sir.”

Peccant took another moment to glare at him, then straightened up. “You have detention tomorrow. Be there on time or you get double.”

Peccant strode away and Omen stood with shoulders slumped.

“He hates you.”

Omen looked up as Filament Sclavi strolled over, hands in his pockets and an amused smile on his face.

“I have seen him take a dislike to people before,” Filament said, “but that was … what is the word, for the thing? That was malicious. It was as if he were gaining personal satisfaction from it.”

Omen didn’t know what to say, so he just said, “Yeah.”

“You are Omen, yes? Auger’s brother? My name is Filament. How is it going?”

“Going fine,” said Omen without thinking. “Well, I mean, apart from the detention I just got.”

“That does suck, yes,” Filament said. He was only a Fourth Year, but he looked older, about eighteen. He was tall and strong and handsome, like an Italian version of Omen’s brother. The only other thing Omen knew about him was that he was a member of the Eternity Institute, a self-help organisation that had posters up all over the school. “Do you play any sports, Omen?”

“Me?” Omen asked, even though it was obvious that it was him Filament was talking to. “No, I don’t. Never really understood it.”

“You have, um, never understood any sport in particular, or just sports in general?”

“In general,” said Omen. “Could never wrap my head around the, y’know, the point.”

Filament grinned. “So, if I suggested that maybe you try to join the rugby team, you would have no interest?”

Omen frowned. “I’d get squashed.”

Filament laughed. “You would not get squashed.”

“I would, though. Those guys are all huge.”

“Not all of them. Not even most of them, actually. I am not huge, am I? Yet I play rugby. There are some positions, in fact, where being a smaller player is an advantage.”

“Yeah,” said Omen, “for the opposite team. So you can squash them. I don’t think, if I did take up a sport, that rugby would be it, to be honest.”

“Ah, very well,” said Filament. “We play against mortals. We pretend to be like them, pretend to be a normal school, and we are not allowed to use magic, obviously … and sometimes we do well, and sometimes we get our asses kicked. I just thought that having a Darkly on the team would boost morale.”

“I’m really not the Darkly you want. Maybe if you ask Auger …?”

“I have,” said Filament, laughing. “He was really nice about it, but there was no way he would ever say yes. He is probably too busy having his adventures, yes? Hey, is it true, what he did last year? He stopped that human sacrifice guy?”

“It’s true,” said Omen. “At least, I think it’s true. He doesn’t really talk about that stuff, not even to me.”

Filament shook his head admiringly. “It must be some life to live, huh?”

“Must be.”

“And it must be a lot to live up to, as the twin brother.”

“You’d imagine so,” Omen said, “but I try not to try too hard. I’d hate to disappoint anyone.”

“That is probably wise, Omen.” There was a shout from down the corridor, and Filament waved, then turned back. “So hey, it was very good to meet you. I have passed you loads of times, but never had a reason to say hi. So … hi.”

“Hi.”

“And if you ever change your mind about the rugby …”

“The only way that’d happen is after a concussion playing rugby, so …”

Filament laughed. “Very well. I will see you around, then, Omen.”

The dinner bell rang, and Omen took one of the smaller staircases down. Never was sitting with his other friends, so Omen sat alone and watched people as they ate in their groups. The Sixth Year boys scared him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them. The Sixth Year girls intimidated him, so he didn’t spend too long looking at them, either. The Fifth Year girls intimidated him, too, and so did the Fourth Years, so he pretty much stayed away from the girls completely.

His eyes settled on Jenan and his friends. They sat at the table at the far side of the hall, smirking to each other because that’s what they did – they smirked and felt superior. It was their favourite pastime.

It wasn’t a big deal, slagging off mortals. Omen didn’t like it, but it was everywhere, it happened in every part of the school, all the way up through the Years. Even some of the teachers indulged in it for a cheap joke and an easy laugh. But Jenan and his friends – Lapse and Gall, Sabre and Disdain – their comments were made of harder stuff, of sharper words. Their jokes were jagged, edged in bitterness. If a recruiter was to start recruiting in Corrival, Jenan Ispolin would be the obvious place to start.

And they were all part of a history study group, Arcanum’s Scholars, formed by Mr Lilt – a passionate teacher who, now that Omen thought about it, never had a good word to say about any mortal. Lilt sat at the staff table, chatting happily to one of the Combat Arts instructors.

Parthenios Lilt. Omen’s first suspect.

Excitement flared in his belly, as the idea registered with him that he might actually be good at this.