The Guild Conspiracy (27 page)

Braith sat up and squinted at the crumpled newspaper, quickly scanning the article. “Do you think we could convince them?” he asked, glancing up at her. “Do you think we could get them to listen?”

“Maybe,” she said. “If we can get the vice-­chancellor on our side. But we have to get there in time for the trial. After that . . .” She leaned forward with a frustrated sigh and kneaded her brow. “If we're too late, and Julian convinces the Royal Society that I'm the one to blame . . . We won't have a chance.”

“We'll make it,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “As soon as the harbor opens, we'll find a ship and get back to the city before the trial begins. We'll deliver the evidence in time. But right now, we need to rest, wait until morning. There's nothing else we can do until then.”

Petra stared at the empty train tracks at the edge of the platform, chewing hard on her bottom lip. Even with the evidence against them, she feared it still wasn't enough. That it would never be enough. It would be her and Emmerich's failure with the automaton all over again.

She sighed, burying her face in her hands. “What if we still fail?”

“We have evidence enough to prove that the minister was involved somehow with the attack at Amiens,” he said, “as well as evidence to prove he commissioned the quadrupeds without Guild approval. With the other letters and telegrams you collected from the lieutenant-­general's office, we have enough to make a case against him, at least enough to warrant ­suspicion.”

“You think so?”

“We have a chance,” he said. “We have to try.”

She ran her hands through her shortened hair and leaned back against the bench, her gaze on the distant harbor waters to the south. “You know you don't have to come with me,” she said quietly. “You'll be in just as much danger as me if we're caught, if we fail. I'd understand if—­”

“I'm not leaving you to fight this alone, Petra,” he said, taking her hand with a squeeze. “I'm on your side. Always. You should know that by now.”

“We might fail,” she said.

“We might.”

“And they'll hang you right next to me, you realize.”

A smile twitched across his lips. “They'll try.”

 

CHAPTER 19

M
orning dawned quick and cold, the rising sun hidden behind a mask of gray clouds as Petra and Braith left the train station and headed for the harbor. They found passage on a steam-­powered supply boat that had stopped in from Cardiff the night before, en route to Chroniker City with a coal shipment for the subcity boilers. Braith negotiated their fares, and before the first hour of morning had passed, they were setting sail out of Milford Haven, the sky steadily lightening to a chalky gray as they puttered down the waterway and into the open ocean beyond the borders of Wales.

Petra stood at the bow of the ship, her eyes trained on the distant horizon, nothing but choppy blue waters ahead, the Welsh coast and neighboring isles gradually slipping behind as the ship puffed on. Braith stood beside her, the line of his shoulders tense, rigid and silent as a statue.

The two of them looked worse for wear after their long trek from London. Their shoes were worn with holes and scuffs, their clothes muddy and stained with sweat. Braith still wore his military boots and trousers, but they were unrecognizable now, his dark slacks caked with mud and his shoes no longer polished to a shiny black. His red uniform jacket was somewhere at the bottom of the Thames now, along with the rest of any identifying military regalia; though he had kept his pistol, tucked into the calf of his right boot.

Petra hoped he wouldn't need it.

Too soon, the city loomed into view, the University standing like a golden spire atop the waves, the walls shrouded in a misty haze. Petra swallowed hard and gripped the deck railing with both hands, her stomach twisting in knots. There was no guarantee that this would work, no guarantee that their evidence would be enough, but they had to try.

Not an hour later, the ship anchored in the harbor, and they disembarked, marching steadily down the pier until they reached the rocky shore that formed Chroniker Isle. Petra paused, just in sight of the city gates.

This was her last chance to turn back, her last chance to save herself and escape Julian once and for all. Yet she knew she wouldn't. Emmerich had offered her the chance to run once, to walk away from this, but she had chosen to stay, to keep fighting, to try to stop the war before it began.

She could not turn back now.

Petra glanced at Braith, his eyes sharp in the bleak morning light, the seaward winds tossing his hair. At least whatever happened now, she wouldn't be facing it alone.

She turned toward the city gates and peered at the gleaming University beyond. Those brass towers were the start and end to everything—­everything she had ever wanted, everything she had ever hoped for. Only a year ago, she had stood at the foot of the University steps, hoping to earn a position there—­the same fateful day she met Emmerich and soon found herself embroiled in his father's conspiracy.

Today, she would see the end of that conspiracy. One way or another.

Exhaling a deep breath, she clenched her hands at her sides and stepped forward, her feet sure and steady—­her heart less so.

As she neared the gates, she reconsidered her plan. The guards at the gate had been doubled since she was last here. Four Royal Forces soldiers now stood on either side of the city entrance, the doors barred shut. They'd never let her through—­not without asking far too many questions. And the more time they spent at the gates, the less time they had to get to the trial. She slowed, holding out a hand to stop Braith.

“Maybe you should take the lead on this one,” she said, meeting his gaze. “You're military. If you say you have orders to be here, maybe they won't question it. And if they do, well . . .” She trailed off with a frown, a deep sense of unease growing in the pit of her stomach as she considered what she was about to say. “Use me if you have to. Say I'm the one who sabotaged the quadrupeds. They're certain to listen to that.”

“Petra—­”

“We have to get to that hearing,” she said firmly. “Whatever it takes.”

He pressed his lips into a hard frown. “I won't turn you over to them.”

“If that's what it takes to get us inside, then that's what you'll do,” she said, holding his gaze. “If we don't get to the hearing and deliver this evidence, they'll blame me for it anyway. At least this way, we might have a chance to prove what really happened in France . . .
before
they hang me.”

Braith clenched his jaw. “It won't come to that.”

“It might,” she said. “Braith, you have to accept that I may not make it out of here alive. And if that happens, I won't have you dragged to the gallows with me.”

“And won't have you dragged there at all. I would die first, before seeing you hanged a traitor,” he said, his voice cracking. “We're in this together, Petra. I told you that. Where you go, I go. So if you want to have yourself hanged for sabotage, fine. But know that I'll be right there beside you.”

She exhaled sharply. “Dammit, Braith—­”

“We do this my way,” he said firmly. “Or not at all. We didn't come all the way here for you to take the fall for the minister's schemes. I didn't come this far to let you die. So don't you dare turn yourself over now. I haven't given up on getting you out of here alive, Petra. You shouldn't give up on that either.”

She held his gaze a moment longer. “Just get us through those gates and to the Royal Society hearing,” she said. “Do that, and then we can talk about getting out of here alive.”

He nodded once. “Just follow my lead.”

They turned again toward the gates, the guards standing tall and statuesque, their faces drawn into rigid frowns as Petra and Braith came to a halt in front of them.

“State your business,” said the shorter of the two soldiers, his expression hard as he appraised their travel-­worn clothes.

“We're here for the Royal Society hearing,” said Braith. “We have information regarding the failure of the war machine army in France.”

“Do you have identification?”

“Of course.” Braith crouched and withdrew a leather wallet from his boot. “Officer Cadet Braith Cartwright of the British Royal Forces,” he said, handing the booklet to the guard. “We're here to deliver evidence.”

The guard looked over Braith's identification, briefly scrutinizing his grimy appearance before shutting the passport with a frown. “We have had no word of your impending arrival.”

“I wouldn't be expected,” he said. “I was at Amiens. My superiors likely believe me to be dead.”

The soldier gaped at him. “You were at the battle?”

Braith nodded. “I piloted one of the war machines.”

“Blimey . . . What happened?” he asked, staring at Braith with a measure of awe. “We heard it was sabotage. Is that true?”

“It was . . .” He clenched his jaw. “It was a massacre,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “So many men—­” He broke off with a frown, real pain etched into his every word, cracking through the stoic mask he so often wore as a soldier. He cleared his throat, meeting the other soldier's gaze. “You must understand. I have to tell the Royal Society what happened there. It may aid their investigation and bring those responsible for the failure to justice.”

The soldier frowned, shifting the position of his rifle to his other shoulder. “I'm sorry, but I have orders not to let any soldiers into the city, not without prior approval. Had we been informed . . .”

“You must make an exception, surely. If I don't testify—­”

“Those are my orders,” he said. “You're a soldier. You understand. This goes above me.”

“Then I should ask to contact your superior officer,” said Braith, standing a little straighter. “If you telephone Colonel Kersey at the Royal Forces office and give my name, I am sure he will grant us entry.”

The Royal Forces guard exchanged a frown with his fellow soldier, and then turned his back to Braith, conversing in low tones with another soldier on the other side of the gate.

He nodded once and then faced them again.

“Very well. Wait here while one of our men telephones the office.”

The moment the soldier turned his back again, Petra leaned close, turning away from the gate. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “Kersey is on Julian's side. We can't trust him.”

“No, but he can get us past the gates. That's what you want, isn't it?”

“And I thought
you
wanted to keep me out of the Royal Forces' hands,” she said, her voice rising. “If we go to Kersey for help, he'll hand me straight over to Julian the moment we step foot in the city.”

“You really think I'd let that happen? After all we've been through?”

There was movement on the other side of the city gate, and they both fell silent as one of the soldiers returned, quickly conversing with the others through the bars.

The shorter soldier faced them again. “The colonel wishes to speak with you to verify your identity before admitting you into the city. If you come with me, I can take you to the gatehouse telephone, where you can speak with him directly.”

Braith nodded and turned toward Petra. “Let's go.”

“Wait,” said the guard, standing in their way. “The colonel will speak to Officer Cartwright only. But he did ask for the identity of your companion. Who is this with you?”

“I'm—­”

“A Guild engineer,” answered Braith. “We crossed paths in France and decided to travel here together as our destination was the same.”

“Your name?” asked the soldier.

She paused, racking her brain for a name that wouldn't give her away. “Rupert,” she finally answered, careful to disguise her voice. “Rupert Larson. I'm a Guild engineer, a resident of the University. I was previously stationed at Hasguard.”

“Do you have identification with you?”

She shook her head. “I lost my papers on the journey here,” she said. “But if you contact the vice-­chancellor, he can confirm—­”

“The vice-­chancellor does not have the authority to allow anyone through the gates. Only the colonel,” said the soldier. “Without proper identification or the colonel's permission, I cannot allow you to enter.”

“But—­”

“Don't worry,” said Braith, laying a hand on her arm. “I'll discuss the situation with the colonel and get his approval. Just wait here. I'll be right back.”

Petra clenched her jaw. If this was a trap . . . if Colonel Kersey guessed the truth and had them arrested before she could reach the Royal Society hearing . . . “Be careful,” she whispered.

“I will.”

The soldier gestured toward the narrow guard gate. “This way, Officer.”

Braith hesitated, holding her gaze for a moment longer. Then he left, the gate shutting behind him with a clang.

She whirled away from the door and curled her hands into fists, exposed and vulnerable in sight of the city walls; she could feel the eyes of the Royal Forces soldiers following her every step, and she forced herself to calm down, to breathe. She sucked in a deep breath and peered up the road through the barred gates, the gleaming University visible at the top of the street, its brass towers looming over the rest of the city. So close now. The clock tower in the square chimed half past seven, and the citizens of Chroniker City slowly filled the cobblestone streets, going about their daily business as if a war hadn't started just days ago.

The minutes ticked on, inching steadily toward the top of the hour, and still, Braith did not return to the gate. Petra kept her eye trained on the corner where he had disappeared, every nerve in her body strung taut. The sea churned at her back, waves crashing on the shore as more ships arrived in the harbor—­traders, fishermen, industrial supply ships, craftsmen, and grocers from the mainland—­but no passenger ships. No ferries. Workers passed her by, congesting the harbor plaza as they approached the city gates. All around the mood was glum, somber, heads bowed and backs bent.

Finally, Braith appeared again, his expression a little more rigid as the soldiers unlocked the side gate and let him through. She stared at him, her throat dry, waiting for him to speak.

“Let them pass,” said the familiar soldier, brusquely waving them forward. “By order of Colonel Kersey. Official military business.”

Braith nodded crisply to the officer and gestured Petra through the gates, his lips pressed tight. She obeyed without question, passing from the rocky island shore into the city proper. Despite her unease, the moment her feet touched the familiar cobblestone streets, she breathed a sigh of relief, the vibrations of the subcity engines flooding her with life.

She was home.

The gates clanged shut behind her, and Braith took her firmly by the arm, leading her steadily up the street. “We need to move quickly,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The colonel may have given us entry into the city, but I think he suspects I might be lying to him. I wouldn't be surprised if he sent someone to intercept us.” He covertly glanced over his shoulder at the Royal Forces guards at the gates. “He asked about you.”

She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. “What did you tell him?”

“That you were dead, killed at Amiens, as the lieutenant-­general would have everyone believe. The soldiers at the gate informed him that a Guild engineer was with me, but I denied that it was you, or that I had any knowledge of what happened to you in France. Then I told him I had information about the attacks at Amiens and Calais, specifically regarding the failure of the quadrupeds. He requested I come to him directly, before reporting my evidence to the Royal Society. I insisted I needed to see them immediately, but . . .” Braith sighed. “He said it was too late. The hearing is already in session.”

Petra stopped in her tracks. “No . . .”

All Julian had to do now was convince the Royal Society that she had been the one behind the failure of the quadrupeds—­cite her previous anti-­imperialist involvements, make sure no one raised their voice to defend her—­and the investigation would be over, a dead girl blamed for the machinations of his conspiracy. Julian would be free to do as he wished, his plans for the war and the future sealed with her demise.