The Brass Giant (16 page)

“Emmerich.” She stretched her hand toward him, struggling against the leather strap around her wrist. She wished to entwine her fingers in his, to feel him next to her, but she could not reach him.

“Petra, you need to trust me,” he whispered, his words rushed. “I—­”

“Quiet!” bellowed a deep voice, shouting them into silence. “There will be no speaking between the accused.”

Someone behind the table cleared his throat and stood, his glasses reflecting the harsh electric light—­Vice-­Chancellor Hugh Lyndon. The light deepened the shadows of his face, and as he spoke, his gravelly voice echoed through the chamber, though not with the edge of triumph she expected. “Miss Wade, you have been brought before this tribunal to stand trial for vandalism, trespassing, and assault.”

A brief silence followed his words, and another man stood up, his face coming into the light as he leaned forward onto the long table. Emmerich's father. “And treason, Vice-­Chancellor,” he said. “Do not forget the worst of her crimes.”

Lyndon narrowed his eyes at Emmerich's father, meanwhile worrying at the chain of his pocket watch. “And treason,” he said slowly, turning to face Petra again. “Do you understand the charges, Miss Wade?”

She stared forward, her heart thundering in her chest.

“Affirming your understanding of the charges is not an admission of guilt,” said Lyndon, the lines in his face softening. “We merely must establish the matters to be discussed here. The charges, Miss Wade—­do you understand why you are here?”

Petra swallowed the lump in her throat and fidgeted in her chair. “Yes,” she said weakly.

Nodding gravely, Lyndon turned his attention to Emmerich. “Mr. Goss, you have been brought before this tribunal to stand trial for vandalism, assault, and treason. Do you understand the charges?”

There came no reply.

“Mr. Goss?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I do not.”

“Three days past,” said Lyndon, “with the assistance of Miss Wade, you destroyed Guild-­owned machineries, assaulted three Guild council members—­including myself—­and through your indiscretion, passed classified information to Guild opposition. You deny this?”

“I deny voluntary involvement, sir,” replied Emmerich, his voice stilted. “I was forced into an arrangement with the anti-­imperialist movement.”

There was a collective murmur across the table.

Petra turned her head toward Emmerich, but he was shielded by darkness. “What are you doing?” she hissed. He did not answer.

“Do continue,” said Emmerich's father.

Emmerich released a heavy sigh and continued in the same stilted voice. “When I discovered that my relationship with . . .” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “ . . . with Miss Wade was in fact a plot by the anti-­imperialists to obtain Guild secrets, I attempted to end my associations with her and report her to the Guild authorities, but she learned of my intent to betray her, threatening to end my life should I refuse to aid her.”

Petra listened in open-­mouthed shock to the lies pouring from Emmerich's mouth, unwilling to believe that he would betray her to the Guild like this, that he would condemn her to a traitor's death, but still he went on.

“The plan was to obtain the designs for the defensive automaton, as commissioned to me by the Guild, deliver the schematics to anti-­imperialist leaders, and then destroy the Guild prototype from within.”

“What objective did these radicals hope to achieve by stealing the automaton designs?” asked Emmerich's father.

Emmerich remained silent, but Petra could hear him breathing forcefully beside her. She wished she could see him, if only to look into his eyes and discern the truth behind these lies, but the chamber remained dark, only the long table and the men behind it illuminated by the dim light.

Mr. Goss slammed his hand against the table. “Answer the question, or your allegiance will be of suspect. What was their goal?”

Emmerich exhaled a sharp breath. “War.”

The men behind the table exchanged heightened mumbles and meaningful glances. One of them leaned forward. “With who? What nation sent her?” he asked, gesturing to Petra.

She finally found her voice. “No one sent me!” she said. “I am not a spy!” She struggled in her chair, unable to move. “This is all lies!”

“Miss Wade,” said Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon, his gravelly voice clear and sharp amidst the clamor of his colleagues. “Be silent.” She could not help but cower at the warning in his tone.

“How long have we known of this plot?” demanded one man.

“This cannot be the work of mere radicals,” said another. “France must be behind this.”

“The Luddites attack—­it was led by an anti-­imperialist, was it not?”

“We are vulnerable.”

“If war is coming, we must prepare.”

Lyndon smashed a gavel against the table, bringing the room to silence. “We will conduct further investigations to determine the truth of this matter,” he said, his eyes hovering on Petra. “Miss Wade, you are presently charged with vandalism, trespassing, assault, espionage, and treason. If you are found guilty after our deliberations—­”

A man two seats to the right of Lyndon slammed his fist on the table—­Mr. Fowler, the man who had confronted them at the University. “This requires no further investigation,” he said. “She is guilty, and she deserves death, Vice-­Chancellor. The Royal Court would sentence her for no less than capital punishment.”

Hushed murmurs echoed throughout the chamber.

“She is only a child,” Lyndon said, defending her. He glowered at Mr. Fowler. “You cannot sentence her to hang, whatever her crimes.”

“She is a traitor to the Guild and to the Crown. She must be punished.”

“As Vice-­Chancellor, I have decided that the matter requires more investigation,” he said firmly, banging his gavel against the table like a hammer. “Petra Wade will be detained in the subcity prison until further notice. Emmerich Goss is released from custody, all charges dropped. That is my final word on the matter.”

The Guild council descended into a low drone of murmured discussion as Mr. Fowler stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon sat down behind the table, kneading his fingers across his brow, and Emmerich's father looked triumphant in the ghastly glow of the dim lanterns, leering at her with a self-­satisfied smirk.

They released Emmerich from his seat first, and his hand clasped around hers. “Petra, you have to trust me on this,” he said quietly. “I
will
get you out.” Then he was gone.

She fumed, anger rising up in her chest as the lies replayed in her mind. He had betrayed her, blamed her for everything so he could be a free man, and now the Guild wanted her dead for it.

As the men released the straps on her arms and legs, she did not fight them or try to escape. She kept her head down as they led her back to her prison cell—­a doomed woman. With at least half the Guild council clamoring for her head, and the word of both Emmerich and his father against her, how could she hope to prove herself innocent? No one would listen to her word over theirs. It was all lies, from the very beginning. All along Emmerich must have planned to give her up if they were caught.

When they deposited her in her cell, Petra sat on the floor, her face in her hands. It didn't make sense. Why did he betray her to such an elaborate lie? It was utter nonsense—­the involvement with anti-­imperialists, the threats on Emmerich's life, the conspiracy to steal designs from the Guild . . . None of it was true, and yet the Guild council had believed him. She ran the court proceedings through her mind time and time again, trying to connect the hidden meanings behind Emmerich's accusations, his lies, but none of it made any sense to her. She was torn between hating him for betraying her to the Guild and wishing he were there to tell her everything would be all right—­a maddening dichotomy made worse by the fact that she hadn't been able to see him at the trial. With but one glimpse at his face as he lied to the Guild, she knew she would have understood his meaning, what game he was playing, whether he truly was betraying her or lying to the Guild for some other end. He had told her to trust him, but how could she, after what he had said?

The only thing she could be certain of now was that the Guild was preparing for war—­first, the corruption of the automaton, and now the anti-­imperialist agenda against the Guild and Great Britain. If war was the goal, Emmerich had made certain to push the council to the brink of it, all with a handful of lies and someone to pin them on. But why?

She laid back on the hard metal and stared at the ceiling of her cell, wishing to talk to Emmerich. Right now, he was the only person who could begin to make sense of it all.

The day after the trial, the door to her cell opened. The sudden light blinded Petra, and panic seized her heart as two figures stepped into view. She expected the men in suits again, ready to take her to the gallows, her fate decided, but only one of them entered the cell, descending on her with a tight hug. She breathed in the familiar coaly scent and pushed him back in shock.

“Solomon?” She stared at her brother. “What are you doing here?”

“Emmerich sent me,” he said. “I came as soon as I could.”

Her heartbeat quickened at the name, and she searched her brother's dark eyes, so full of concern. “What's going on?”

“I don't have long,” he said, pressing a parcel into her hands. “When you're free, go to the boilers and hide in the alcove behind the foreman's tower. I'll meet you there before my next shift. We can talk then.” With his arms around her, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Emmerich's sorry for what he had to do. He would have come himself, but—­”

“Boy,” said a man at the door, his voice gruff. “They're coming.”

Solomon took a step back and squeezed her shoulders. “Whatever Emmerich did, he did it to protect you. He wanted me to tell you that.” He brushed her hair from her eyes and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Good luck.”

As darkness once again descended on the cell, she clutched the package in her hand, recognizing the familiar weight of a screwdriver within the folded paper.

 

Chapter 13

P
ETRA WASTED NO
time dismantling the ventilation grate. Four screws held the vent to the floor, easily removed with the screwdriver. Tucking the tool in the waist of her trousers, she dropped her bare feet through the hole and carefully lowered herself into the subcity. The sharp edges caught her thighs and hips, pressing painfully into her yellowing bruises, but with a grunt of concentrated effort she managed to shimmy her petite figure through the vent.

Hanging by the edges of the opening, she searched for a foothold by the dim light reflecting off the brass pipes, but there were no couplings, railings, or catwalks within her reach. The nearest flat surface was at least thirty feet beneath her, a crippling drop even without her injuries. There was, however, a pipe not too far away. If she could swing onto it, she could carefully edge her way down to the landing. Her fingers began to sweat, slipping on the cell floor.

She did not fear the blackness below, but Emmerich was not here to grab hold of her should she lose her footing. Damn him. As much as she tried to be angry with him for putting her in this situation, she couldn't. He had sent Solomon to her, bringing both a means of escape and an apology. She didn't know what the hell was going on, but she wanted to believe in what Solomon had said—­that Emmerich knew what he was doing. It would have been nice if he'd given her some clue, some explanation—­more than a vague request of trust. Machines would never be so unreliable. Life had been simpler when she did not care for anyone, when all she needed was a screwdriver in her hand and a clock to fix.

Petra moved her hands to one side of the opening and carefully rocked her body forward. She swayed backward, gently building momentum. Her fingers slid, losing her grip on the floor above, only her fingertips still clinging to the edge of the vent. With as much effort as she could muster, she swung forward and let go of the vent opening, seized with weightless free fall.

She banged into the pipe, throwing her arms around it as she fell. Her body scraped against the hot metal, but she gripped the pipe tighter with her arms and legs, her sore muscles aching with the effort. She slid over a coupling, nearly breaking her grip when the metal joint slammed against her knees and pelvis, and knocked her chin as she slipped past it, but still did not let go. She finally skidded to a stop, far below the catwalk and even farther below the prison cell. She wondered how long it would be before the guards found her cell empty.

She climbed farther down then, searching for the next catwalk. Far above, the bell tower struck four in the afternoon. Had things gone differently, she would be leaving the pawnshop at that precise moment, perhaps planning to spend the afternoon with Emmerich. She would rather be with him, oblivious to the Guild's plans, spending a hot afternoon in Pemberton Square, perhaps sneaking a kiss in an alleyway. She wanted to hate him, but her feelings for him battled against her anger. She remembered the touch of his lips on hers, the feel of his hair in her fingers, the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

Petra stepped onto a narrow catwalk, the metal cool against her bare feet. The air was cold and tangy here, a stark contrast to the air just beneath street level. She had traveled so deep into the subcity, she could smell the salty seawater the engineers pumped into the purifiers. She had never been so far beneath the city. It felt strange and serene being beyond the sound of gears and turbines—­the only sounds she heard were the bubbling of the purifiers and the swish of water pumped up through the pipes—­but at the same time it was unnatural, unnerving. She missed the grating, grinding, rocking, and ticking of the subcity she had grown to love as a child.

Very few engineers worked in the deep parts of the subcity, but Petra hid from those she saw in case they had been alerted about an escaped prisoner loose beneath the city. She climbed ladders and darted across catwalks, carefully heading toward the fourth quadrant. No one saw her, or if they did, they did not try to stop her.

She left the eerie silence behind, ascending into the racket of gears, cranks, wheels, and steam, making her way toward the boilers below the fourth quadrant. As she neared the surface, her heartbeat quickened, the dangers of her situation suddenly catching up with her—­accused of espionage and treason against the Guild, and now an escaped prisoner with nowhere to run. All her cards were in Emmerich's hands now. She only hoped she was right to still believe in him.

Petra found the agreed meeting place near the foreman's tower and stealthily crept into the narrow alcove, exhausted and weary from the long climb out of the depths of the first quadrant to the boilers. Lying down beneath the curvature of a row of pipes so she wouldn't be seen by any of the boiler workers who might pass by, she closed her eyes and basked in the imposing warmth of the boiler room, the air hot and thick with moisture. The scents of burning coal and vented steam lulled her into a dreamy blankness, just living there in the moment, with the sounds of furnace grates snapping open and shut, the shovel of coal, the hiss of steam, the vibrations of far off machines resonating through the floor. To her, this was as good as home.

It was hours later before Solomon arrived, and by then she had drifted off to sleep, nestled comfortably out of sight. Her brother shook her awake and pulled her into a tight hug.

“Sol,” she said sleepily. “I can't breathe.”

He released her and took her face in his hands, searching her eyes with worry. “I'm just glad you're all right,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “After what you told me the other night, about the Guild and the risks of what you were doing . . .” He sighed. “I'm just glad we got you out of there before the worst happened.”

“Solomon, what's going on? Where's Emmerich?”

“He's fine—­worried about you, but fine. Right now you need to focus on getting to safety. Emmerich is working to clear the charges against you, but it will take time. Until then you need to lie low. Here.” He drew a letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. “It's from Emmerich.”

Petra unfolded it and read the brief note, scrawled in Emmerich's hand:

Please forgive me for what I said, for what I did. I know you must be angry with me, but please believe me when I say that I did it to ensure your safety. I am afraid I cannot explain any more in a letter. Things are more dire than I thought.

Send word to my housekeeper Kristiane once you are safe. She can be trusted and will ensure that I receive the message. Your brother has the address.

Be careful.

She stared at the words on the page, trying to find meaning beyond the cryptic sentences that seemed to say everything and nothing all at once. She glanced up at her brother. “I don't understand. What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?”

“As soon as the bell for the shift change rings, you need to leave with the rest of the workers,” said Solomon. “Go to Norris's house, and send word to Emmerich once you are safe.” He pushed a second piece of paper into her hands. “That's the address.”

“You want me to go to Norris Holland's place?”

“It was the only place we could think of where the Guild wouldn't look for you. Mr. Stricket's and the shop are right out, and you can't go home. After what happened with Tolly, I knew you couldn't go there either, so that left Norris's place. You'll be safe there. The Guild doesn't know about him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Her brother sighed. “You just have to trust me. You have to trust Emmerich.”

Petra pressed her lips together. “Sol, he's the one who accused me. Because of what he said, the Guild council thinks that I'm a traitor, an anti-­imperialist spy. I could hang.”

“I know,” he said. “Trust me, I don't agree with what he did, but he kept his word and got you out of there. You're here now. That's what matters.”

The bell atop the foreman's tower blared overhead, and there was a clatter of shovels and furnace grates as the workers left their stations and headed toward the catwalks.

“I have to go,” said Solomon, taking his hat off and placing it on her head. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and held her face in his hand for a moment. “And so do you. Leave with the rest of the workers, and go to Norris's house. He's expecting you.” He wrapped his arms around her one more time, planted a kiss on her cheek, and then regarded her carefully, bracing her shoulders. “Good luck.”

She forced a smile. “Thanks, Sol.”

Joining the throng of weary coal-­shovelers, she reached the fourth quadrant back exit, the same staircase she and Emmerich had used to visit the subcity all that time ago. She stopped at the railing and looked out over the rows of boilers, not wanting to leave. No comforts awaited her on the surface. She could not return home or to the shop. As soon as the prison guards discovered her cell was empty, they would send bobbies to the fourth quadrant, if they hadn't already. They would scour Pemberton, Andover, and Medlock, checking her usual haunts. Whether they knew of her absence yet, she could not know, but she had the feeling her luck had nearly run out. She watched Solomon take his place in front of a furnace and grasp his shovel. She had to trust him—­and Emmerich. She had to believe that they knew what they were doing.

She followed the other workers up the spiral staircase and through the narrow door. When she stepped out into the street, she almost expected hands to grab her and drag her back to the prison cell, or take her straight to the gallows. Instead, she was met with rain—­fat, gray droplets of cloudy water pinging against the pipe-­laden, metal roofing. The rain was heavy enough to obscure her passing, and not many ­people would be out in this sort of weather. Perhaps luck would stick with her a moment longer.

Petra crossed through an alley, following a path dirty with years of grime and neglect. Norris's house was on the other side of the fourth quadrant, nestled into a row of houses that had once known better days. Sticking to the alleys, she made her way to his door and raised her hand to the knocker, rapping the iron ball hard against the wood. The rain soaked through her clothes and splattered on the brick pavers, coming down harder than ever. When no one came to the door, she felt a twinge of panic rise in her throat. She knocked a second time, and finally the door cracked open.

Norris peered out from the dark house, his wavy blond hair combed to the side. He looked her up and down, taking in her sodden clothes and bare feet. “Well, you're a mess,” he said, opening the door wide.

“Thanks,” she said dryly. Shivering from the rain, she stepped inside.

She hadn't been to the Holland home in ages, and it looked no better than the last time she lost her wages at the card table—­smoke-­stained wallpaper peeling away from the edges, sagging and broken furniture, and a mauve threadbare carpet thrown across the dark wood floor.

“I hear you've been sentenced to hang,” said Norris. He leaned against the wall and picked his fingernails. He smelled of cigar smoke. “Is that what it takes for you to come for a visit these days?”

“I've been busy.”

“So I've heard,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding her with an arched eyebrow. “What is it you did? Sol wouldn't say.”

“It's better you don't know,” she said, running her fingers through her wet hair. Rainwater dripped from her clothes onto the floor. “You wouldn't happen to have a towel, would you? And something dry to wear? I'm soaked through, in case you didn't notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” he said, a sly grin lifting his lips. “And I think I like this look on you,” he added, arching his eyebrows as his eyes trailed down her wet clothes. “It suits you.”

“Don't even think about it, Norris,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at him as she shielded herself from his gaze. “I'm not one of your dollymops.”

He laughed. “That you aren't, love.”

Petra folded her arms over her chest and waited for Norris to fetch her a towel. She was wet, cold, and alone, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this wretched place. But as much as she despised Norris and his penchant for crude remarks, she knew it was the safest place for her to be. Solomon was right, of course. The Guild knew nothing of her friendship with Norris and wouldn't think to look for her here.

Norris returned with a towel, and she started drying her hair.

“Can I borrow some clothes?” she asked. “Something decent, mind.”

Norris led her to his bedroom, and she waited in the doorway as he dug through his wardrobe, fetching trousers, some linen underthings, and a shirt. She didn't doubt he had women's clothes hidden somewhere in his room—­considering his reputation—­but she did not complain; she had grown to like trousers, glad to not have to bother with a chemise or petticoats.

Norris handed her the bundle of clothes.

“You wouldn't have any spare stockings or shoes, would you?” she asked.

Norris gave a little bow. “Anything for the lady.”

He grabbed some stockings from a drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe and plucked a pair of shoes from next to the door. He squeezed into the doorway, almost nose-­to-­nose with Petra, and placed the shoes and stockings in her arms along with the clothes.

She fidgeted uncomfortably at his closeness and tried to shrink into the door frame. “Norris . . .”

He smiled his devious grin and chuckled. “You make it too easy, Petra,” he said, leaving the confined doorway and heading into the living room. He plopped down on the sofa and regarded her with a smile. “Should I promise not to peek while you change?”

She glared. “You wouldn't.”

He merely shrugged.

Narrowing her eyes, Petra closed the bedroom door between them and pressed flat against it, not willing to stake her modesty on Norris's word. She changed out of the wet clothes, dried her cold, damp skin, and pulled on the dry garments, securing the trousers with a pair of suspenders. The shirt smelled distinctly of tobacco and shaving cream.