The Guild Conspiracy (17 page)

“I'm not sure,” he said, taking a tentative step forward. “But I'll find out. Stay here. I'll be right back.” He strode across the grass and stopped in front of the officer with a salute. “Lieutenant-­General, sir? Officer Cadet Braith Cartwright reporting.”

“You're the one who reports to Julian Goss, yes? One of Colonel Kersey's boys from the Guild?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I need you to come with me.” The lieutenant-­general turned on his heel and started toward his steam-­car, gesturing for Braith to follow. “Quickly now.”

Braith wavered. “Sir?” he said tentatively. “I have prior orders.”

The lieutenant-­general paused halfway to his vehicle and slowly turned around, his hands clasped behind his back. He glared at Braith, his steely gaze as hard as the pistol he carried at his hip. “I assume you are referring to the supervision of Miss Wade? It is my understanding she will be occupied for the next few hours aboard this airship, and as such, your ser­vices will not be needed. There are far more important matters that require your attention, Officer
Cadet.
” He spat the word as if it were an insult. “Once Miss Wade has returned from her airship tour, you may resume your duty, but until then, you shall attend to
me
. Understood?”

“Will another officer be assigned to her in my absence?”

“I don't see why that is necessary.”

Braith frowned. “Forgive me, sir,” he went on, hesitation in his voice. “But did Minister Goss approve of this—­the minister to the vice-­chancellor? My orders come directly from him, and I received no word that those orders should change upon arriving at Hasguard.”

The ranking officer squared his shoulders with a deep breath, exuding an air of authority that commanded attention. “My orders supersede the minister's, but if you must know, when I petitioned the Guild for an officer familiar with Guild affairs to help me with some . . . particular military matters, the minister offered you by name.”

“He did?”

“Just so. I assume that answers your question?”

Braith hesitated before answering. “It does, sir.”

“Good. If that's all? Then, follow me.”

As the officer returned to his vehicle, Braith turned back toward Petra. “I'm sorry,” he said with a wince. “He's right. His orders supersede the minister's. I have to go.”

“What do you think it's about?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

He shook his head. “I don't know, but . . . something doesn't seem right about this.” He met her eyes, a frown etched across his brow. “Wait for me when you get back?”

She nodded once, swallowing against a pang of guilt as she realized the opportunity this could present. If she returned from the airship tour and Braith was not back yet, tied up in whatever business the Royal Forces required of him, her escape was all but secured.

All she had to do was slip away.

“See you then,” he said.

He turned and left without another word, joining the lieutenant-­general at his vehicle. She felt a slight twinge in her chest as he climbed into the cab and drove away, the prospect of escape quickly souring at the thought of what might drag him away from his duties at Julian's command.

Nothing good, she suspected.

Rupert stepped up beside her. “I wonder what's going on.”

“I wish I knew.”

“I'm sure we'll find out when we get back,” he said gently, turning her toward the
Diantha
. “Come on. Let's get in line to board. We don't want to miss our flight.”

T
he airship cruiser was far more extravagant than Petra expected. They stepped off the hydraulic lift, through a pair of gilded doors, and into a lavishly decorated room, spreading down the full length of the ship like a long, low-­ceilinged ballroom. The floor was bedecked with painted tile and plush carpets, with curtains of shimmery brocade pulled back from the wide casement windows. Twin spiral staircases curved up from the floor to the upper decks, and at the far wall stood an electric lift, its gilded gates flanked by a pair of attendants in crisp black livery. Another dozen attendants stood at intervals along the cream-­colored walls.

The other boarding passengers flocked to the wide windows overlooking the airfield, but Rupert grabbed Petra's hand and tugged her toward the stairs.

“Come on. You'll want to be up top when we take off.”

They pushed past satin skirts, lace fans, and voluminous bustles and hurried up the metal stairs, a velvet rope guarding the top. Rupert held it up for Petra to duck under, and then they came face-­to-­face with a narrow door, a “No Passengers Permitted” sign nailed to the wood. They ignored that too, quickly pushing through to the uppermost deck, the massive dirigible balloon floating weightily overhead.

Ropes creaked and banners fluttered in the wind as a breeze rushed over the balustrades and swept across the deck, tugging at Petra's skirt and hair. The air was cold and clear atop the airship, smelling of grass and earth and sky, without even a hint of smoke or grease or hot metal, so alien and strange . . . but comforting somehow.

Standing here, floating above the ground, she was free.

At the foredeck, they watched the busy airfield, thick with ships and pedestrians. Then a bell rang somewhere below, and the airship surged upward with a smooth leap. Petra held tightly to the railing as the grassy airfield fell away and the crewmen and visiting public diminished into tiny scurrying dots across the busy pasture, the airships and hangers soon nothing more than distant spheres and metal prisms.

The ship leveled out and Petra laughed, her skin alive with the boundlessness around her. She leaned against the balustrade, watching the landscape slip away beneath her. The world seemed smaller from the height of the airship: vast squares of farmland stretching out for miles, endless grassy hills, and countless trees. Little hamlets and villas dotted the countryside in clusters of steep roofs and stone walls, and to the south, the gray streets of Milford Haven lined the blue stretch of waterway, turned hazy by the distance, with the shores of southern Pembrokeshire just beyond.

Rupert slid up next to her. “I'm sorry Braith couldn't come.”

She sighed, a feeling of unease settling in her chest. “Me too.”

Despite everything with the quadruped and her sabotage and the fact that he was a soldier of the Royal Forces, she liked Braith—­which only made things worse. Guilt pricked at her chest at the thought of leaving without telling him. He had trusted her, despite it all, blindly dragged into this web of lies and conspiracy and sabotage.

She rested her elbows against the railing, wondering what the lieutenant-­general wanted with him. The fact that Julian had offered him up by name worried her more than anything else. Braith had stood up for her, had lied to Julian to protect her. His sudden transfer of duties was no coincidence—­she was certain of that—­but what did it mean?

What was Julian planning?

Once the ship sailed beyond the Welsh coast and over open water, Rupert led Petra belowdecks, where they enjoyed the view of the ocean from the dining room. But all through tea, Petra's mind brewed tirelessly, preoccupied with thoughts of Braith, of Julian, the quadruped and the conspiracy. The war. Her escape. She barely ate any food, a dark cloud hanging over her despite Rupert's best efforts to brighten her mood.

Finally, a half-­hour later, an airship attendant announced they would be arriving over Chroniker City soon, and she was spared from her mire of dark thoughts. Rather than follow the rest of the passengers down to the lower viewing decks, Petra and Rupert climbed the spiral stairs once again to the upper deck, left to enjoy the view alone, except for the few crewmen lounging near the stern of the ship.

Petra leaned against the decorative balustrade, enjoying the brief freedom of the sun on her face and the wind in her hair, flying so high above the rest of the world. But then she spied Chroniker City ahead, looming out of the ocean like the sunken city of Atlantis, sea-­green waves breaking against the walled shore. The University, forever a beacon of technological prosperity, glimmered brightly in the afternoon sun, the rest of the city in its shadow.

It was beautiful, really.

But what had once been her home had become a cage.

She could not go back there, not if she wanted to survive.

The airship dropped low on its approach and circled the city walls. The many buildings were nothing but a collection of shingled roofs, pipes, and smokestacks from this height. They passed over the south of the city, dropping lower as the dirigible eased toward the brass walls of the University. Petra could see the street divisions between the four quadrants—­the white-­walled buildings and wide windows of the second quadrant, the darker brick and wood of the fourth, and between, the low, stone buildings and bright greenery of Pemberton Square in the first. She could see the gentle curve of Medlock Cross as it cut through the fourth quadrant, and she spied the windows of Mr. Stricket's pawn shop far below, the fateful steps where she had met Emmerich only a year ago.

So much had changed since then.

Rupert nudged her with his elbow. “Happy birthday, Petra,” he said quietly, wrapping his arm around her in a hug.

She leaned into him with a sigh and rested her head on his shoulder, grateful for his companionship. She wondered if she would ever see him after today, if she would ever return to the University and walk those familiar halls again, Rupert at her side. He was her best friend—­for a long time, her
only
friend within those walls. She hated to leave him now, after everything he had done for her, but what choice did she have? The war had finally caught up with her, and there was nothing left to do but run.

Maybe, if she was lucky, she'd find another way to bring Julian to heel, end the war from outside the Guild's constraining walls, outside of Julian's influence. If she could make it to Paris, perhaps there she could find Emmerich, and maybe together they could bring his father down, just the two of them—­as it should have been from the very beginning.

And maybe then, she could come home.

Maybe then, she could claim her family name, take up the mantle her mother had left behind. But not before, not while the world was still in turmoil, not while the Guild still sowed so much corruption.

Not yet.

O
n the return trip to Hasguard, Rupert and Petra remained top deck, even as the airship began its descent. As the ship approached the airfield, a group of crewmen climbed over the balustrades and rappelled down the side of the hull, landing masterfully on the grass below before guiding the airship to anchor.

“See Braith anywhere?” asked Rupert, peering over the rails.

Petra searched the airfield for Braith's familiar features, but she didn't see him among any of the redcoats. “Not yet. He must still be with the lieutenant-­general.”

She swallowed hard, a knot forming in her throat. With Braith gone, this could be the best time to escape. She could be halfway back to Milford Haven before he even realized she was gone, and by the time he returned to the harbor, she could be on a train to Cardiff, putting as many miles between her and Chroniker City as a steam locomotive could take her. But only if she left now, before he returned from his business with the lieutenant-­general.

She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and touched the solid weight of her reticule, easily enough money to buy passage to London by train. From there she could make for Paris.

Would he guess where she was headed?

Would he come after her?

Her fingertips brushed over the front of her pocket watch, the ornate design so familiar to her after all these years. She withdrew it from her pocket and checked the time.

Three hours until the last train left the station at Milford Haven. Three hours to slip away and leave Chroniker City behind for good, but not yet. She couldn't bring herself to leave, not without . . . not without some sort of goodbye. She owed him that much, didn't she?

“What if we went ahead without him?” suggested Rupert, startling her out of her thoughts. “He knows where we'll be. He can find us there when he's finished.”

“But how?” she asked, putting her pocket watch away. “Without Braith, we don't have the military clearance to get into the hangars. They'll never let us through.”

Rupert shrugged, a sly grin on his face. “Then we'll just sneak in.”

“And if we're caught? You know I'm under a lot of restrictions, even here.”

“Then we won't get caught.” He hopped down from the loading dock and extended his hand. “Trust me. I know a way in.”

Petra fought back a smile, knowing she couldn't deny that mischievous look in his eye. Sneaking into the hangars without Braith wasn't exactly what they had planned, but she only had three hours to spend with Rupert before she had to leave—­possibly for good, if things didn't turn out the way she wanted—­and she intended to make the most of what little time she had left.

Besides, Rupert was right. Braith would know where to find them.

“All right, then, Mr. Larson,” she said, elegantly taking his hand with a grin to match his own. “Lead the way.”

They left the loading dock behind, weaving around docked ships and huddles of crewmen, making their way to the north side of the airfield.

The military hangars stood on the other side of a barbed fence and a barred iron gate, but they skirted past the heavily guarded entry, heading toward a hangar on the civilian side of the airfield. Rupert pulled her behind the building and led her to the fence on the opposite side, hidden from sight.

Rupert pried a section of fence away from the nearest post and opened a gap through to the other side. “After you, milady.”

Petra slipped through, and Rupert quickly followed. Footsteps echoed off the hangars' corrugated tin walls as they snuck through the compound, pausing at the occasional chatter from nearby soldiers. Once, a military lorry rumbled down an access road toward the gate, and Petra and Rupert shrank into the shadows of the nearest building until the sound of its boiler engine faded.