The Guild Conspiracy

by Brooke Johnson

  Julian could not touch her now.

  When the ferry docked a ­couple of hours later, Petra and Braith disembarked, following the crowd of passengers off the boat and up the wide walkway into the town proper, the air ripe with the briny tang of the harbor and the scents of cookery from the nearby restaurants. The smell of steam exhaust and burning charcoal was barely noticeable here, nothing more than an afterthought. Shops lined the shorefront street, interspersed with restaurant patios, alfresco boutiques, and a pair of stately hotels. Trees, grass, and shaped hedges filled the empty spaces between, the heady scent of fresh soil and trimmed leaves a stark contrast to the atmosphere of brick, metal, and steam of Chroniker City.

  Braith led the way up the street, Petra close behind. Passersby filled the footpaths, milling about the shops and gossiping among themselves, and carriage and steam-­car alike clip-­clopped and puttered up and down the street, pausing briefly to allow the foot traffic from the docks to pass. Petra stopped for a passing carriage and wiggled her toes in her shoes, the stone pavers beneath her feet still and quiet. There were no engines under the streets, no mechanical structures or mechanisms of any kind—­just solid earth, as if the city itself was dead.

  It was unnerving.

  They met Rupert at the train station. He had traveled ahead days ago, leaving the city at the end of the semester to start his official internship at the airfield. It had been a dull few days without him, but seeing him now dragged her out of her melancholy mood in an instant. He lifted her with a tight hug and kissed her cheek, making her blush. “Happy birthday, Petra.”

  She smiled in return. “So what’s the plan for today?” she asked, trying not to think of the fact that she would be leaving in a few hours.

  “An airship tour, of course,” he said with a grin, producing a brightly colored flyer from his pocket. A lithograph of an airship emblazoned the handbill, artistic lettering decorating the rest:

  Visit Scenic Chroniker City Aboard Britain’s First Aerial Cruise Ship!

  “After that, I thought we might take a tour of the airfield,” he went on. “I wanted to show you the airship I designed for the Royal Forces. It’s on the military side of the airfield, but Braith says he can get us access with his identification.”

  Petra glanced up at him. “Really?”

  Braith nodded, a crooked smile on his face. “Consider it a birthday gift.”

  Just then, a public omnibus rolled up to the train station, stopping with a hiss.

  “This is us,” said Rupert, fishing in his pocket for three bus tickets.

  He handed a ticket each to her and Braith, and then the three of them climbed aboard the vehicle, handing over half of their ticket stubs before taking their seats by the wide windows. The rest of the passengers quickly boarded, and then the bus trundled away from the station with a kick, leaving a puttering cloud of black smoke behind them.

  They traveled from Milford Haven through a few outlying towns and then onward to Hasguard, passing endless fields and blue sky, so vast and open and green compared to the crowded streets and towering buildings of Chroniker City. Eventually, the road narrowed, and the broad, flat landscape disappeared behind leafy trees and wild hedges. The omnibus slowed, weaving through low hills and gentle curves, the carriage swaying and shuddering as they delved deeper into the countryside, trees and branches whipping past the open windows. Then they took a sharp right up a narrow road and passed another busload of passengers heading back to the harbor town.

  The omnibus puttered steadily up a low rise, and as they came to the top of the hill, Petra saw the first of the airship balloons in the distance, hovering low over the grassy plains. She rose in her seat and leaned out the window, her eyes on the floating dirigibles, like lazy wooden birds hovering over the horizon—­so high and far away as they sailed through the open sky, untethered to the earth.

  Then the bus took a turn, and she stumbled back into her seat, landing soundly against Braith. He caught her by the waist, and their eyes met for a brief moment before she cleared her throat and inched away, a knot of guilt in her chest as she turned her attention back to the window. She focused on the familiar putter of the omnibus engine, watching the distant ships float through the sky. In just a few hours, she would be leaving, and she still didn’t know how to tell him—­or if she would tell him at all.

  Moments later, Hasguard Airfield appeared ahead, a sprawling meadow of landing docks, anchoring equipment, and rows and rows of hangars. The bus rolled through the open gate and onto the airfield grounds, chuffing to a stop in front of a small collection of booths and tents erected atop the grass.

  Petra, Braith, and Rupert quickly disembarked and set off through the tents, the canvas and fabric flapping loudly in the high wind. The camp was packed with ­people, bustling with passengers, crewmen, and soldiers.

  “I already have our tickets,” said Rupert, ushering them past the large ticket stall at the far end of the camp. He pointed to one of the anchored ships ahead. “We’ll be flying on the Diantha, the first of a new class of aerial tour cruisers; this will be her maiden tour.”

  The Diantha was a majestic sight, built like an old seventeenth-­century sailing ship, with a balloon instead of sails and two short wings protruding from the hull, each fitted with a pair of electric propellers. An ornately carved figurehead ornamented the prow, and decorative balustrades stood in place of standard deck rails at the top deck. Banners of silk brocade and embroidered flags hung from the inflated balloon, fluttering prettily in the breeze, while a large windowed cabin claimed the bow of the ship, the glass panes glinting like gold in the bright morning sunshine. Already, a crowd gathered below, a team of crewmen preparing the ship for boarding.

  Rupert pointed to the sun-­gilded windows. “That’s the dining room there. I’ve reserved us a table for tea, once we’re over the bay. I thought we might have dinner at the harbor after we get back to Milford Haven. The last ferry doesn’t leave until eight, so that gives us plenty of time to spend in town before we have to head back.”

  Petra forced a smile to her face, knowing she wouldn’t be returning with them. At least she had a few hours until that eventuality. “Sounds perfect.”

  They hiked across the spongy grass to the airship dock, passing a military steam-­lorry parked nearby. A group of redcoats lounged around the back, smoking and talking among themselves, their eyes roaming over the assortment of passing ladies. One of the soldiers caught Petra’s eye and winked, taking a long draw off his cigarette. She rolled her eyes and ignored him, turning back toward Braith and Rupert as another steam-­car pulled up to the airship, leaving deep ruts in the grass.

  The car jolted to a stop and out stepped another officer, a tall, bearded man with dark hair and a severe expression on his face. The soldiers quickly stamped out their cigarettes and saluted him.

  “Which one of you is Cartwright?” he barked.

  Petra stopped and glanced at Braith. “Is he looking for you?”

  “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 w
ill 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.”

  The 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. S
he 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.

  On 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.