“Excuse me,” Coe finally said, rapping on the gatehouse window.
“Lay off or I’ll see you fined for disorderly conduct,” the operator snarled, but when he looked up and saw Coe, he straightened on his stool so abruptly that he fell right off it.
Scrambling up and readjusting his cap once more, the operator stammered, “M-m-my apologies, s-s-s-sir. How can I be of assistance?”
“We have an appointment with the Inventors’ Guild,” Coe informed him.
The man’s beady eyes narrowed when he looked over Charlotte, Meg, Ash, and Grave. “All of you?” the operator inquired of Coe. “Do you have papers?”
Coe smiled at the little man, but his tone was so cold he might as well have drawn his pistol. “Military business is not subject to your bureaucratic oversight. Let me talk to your superior.”
“No, no, no,” the operator squeaked. “That’s not necessary.”
He pulled a chain that dangled from the gatehouse ceiling, and the metal barricade swung open.
When they were past the gate, Ash said to Coe, “He could be talking about that if he heads to the tavern this evening.”
“If he talks, Ott will know before anyone else does,” Coe replied. “And he’ll make sure nothing comes of it.”
An amalgam of sound rose from within the Hive’s wide base, spiraling toward its pinnacle.
“The workshops occupy the lower levels,” Coe told them. “In the middle you’ll find a mix of specialty shops and living spaces. The higher tiers are strictly residential.”
Charlotte let her head drop back, and she turned in a slow circle, so she could gaze up at ring after ring of the Hive. An elevator bank served as a structural foundation at the center of the Hive, and at each level, bridges extended outward from the elevators like spokes on a wheel.
“Do many artisans choose to live where they work?” Charlotte asked.
“They don’t have a choice,” Coe answered. “Artisans assigned to one of the Hive guilds are required to live within this structure.”
At Charlotte’s startled reaction, Coe added, “It’s their concession for being allowed to reside in the Floating City rather than with most laborers in the Commons.”
The Inventors’ Guild occupied a quarter of the Hive’s ground levels, its door labeled with a brass plate bearing the guild’s crest. But when they passed into the guild itself, Charlotte was certain they were in the wrong place.
Every wall was lined with shelves brimming with stacks of paper. They could barely find space to move through the room due to the easels, drafting boards, and desks—also covered with papers, charts, and sketches—squeezed into every nook and cranny.
Despite the overabundance of inanimate objects in the guild, not a living soul was to be seen.
“Where is everyone?” Ash asked.
“Someone must be here,” Coe said, but he sounded uncertain.
Charlotte threw him a questioning glance, at which he shrugged.
“Inventors are notoriously unreliable. Their minds are set to their tinkering, and they make little effort to ensure that the bureaucratic side of the guild runs smoothly.”
“Here.” Charlotte pushed past Coe to a desk that at first glance seemed to be part of the general clutter, but that Charlotte noted was much larger than the others in the room. Clearing off a layer of papers, Charlotte discovered a button inlaid upon the desktop with the word ASSISTANCE etched above it.
Charlotte pushed the button, and a trumpet fanfare sounded around them. Coe knocked over an easel, and Ash cursed until he was out of breath.
Somewhere behind the dunes of paperwork, a voice piped up. “Is someone there?”
“Yes!” Charlotte called. “We need assistance!” She hoped invoking the official button word would improve her chances of getting help.
A short man whose helmet was twice the height of his head and seemed to boast a built-in telescope, magnifying glass, and astrolabe rolled up to the desk—rolled because he was riding around on a narrow, wheeled plank controlled by two small hand cranks attached to a long metal tube at the center of the plank.
The man arranged the scattered pages on the desk into misshapen stacks, then twirled the ends of his waxed mustache as he peered at Charlotte.
“Guild identification?”
“I’m not a guild member,” Charlotte said.
The man snorted in disgust. Rearranging more sheets of paper on the desktop, he pointed to the space above the button Charlotte had pushed. In the newly cleared space, Charlotte read MEMBER ASSISTANCE.
“Oh,” Charlotte said. “I’m so sorry, but—”
But the man had already turned his apparatus around and was wheeling away.
“Wait!” Charlotte called after him.
He paid her no mind, disappearing whence he had come.
Shoving all the remaining papers off the desk, Charlotte found another button with the label VISITOR ASSISTANCE. She slammed her hand down on the button.
A moment later, the same man returned on his strange transport.
“May I be of assistance, miss?”
Charlotte stared at him. “But you were just here.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you offer to help me then?”
“I was here to assist on guild matters,” the man replied.
“But you’re the same person,” Charlotte argued.
“I am,” he said, returning her stare without blinking.
Charlotte stared so hard that she thought her eyeballs might drop out of her skull.
Coe came to the desk and moved Charlotte aside.
“We need to locate one of your members,” Coe told the man.
The man’s nose gave a rabbitlike twitch when he took note of Coe’s uniform. “Our members spend their time on diverse projects throughout the Hive, sir. The guild hall is simply our repository for member records and idea claims and accident reports.”
Coe gave a knowing, but disgusted nod, so Charlotte said, “If we tell you who he is, can you tell us what project he’s working on and where we can find him?”
“Of course, miss,” the man replied. “What is his guild identification?”
“Hackett Bromley,” Charlotte answered.
“That’s not an identification.”
“That’s his name,” Coe pointed out.
“Yes. But what is his identification?”
Despite his familiarity with the inner workings of the Inventors’ Guild, Coe’s patience had run out. “Do I really need to know?” He put his hand on his gun holster, but the man didn’t notice.
“Yes. If you don’t know the identification, you’ll have to look him up.” He pointed at a teetering tower of papers in the room’s far corner. “All guild registration papers are there. Of course, we haven’t had time to alphabetize them yet—”
Coe reached across the desk, grabbed the man’s helmet, and lifted him off his feet.
He choked and sputtered as the helmet’s chin strap dug into his throat.
“I don’t have time to look it up,” Coe said calmly.
He let the man kick at the air a few more times before dropping him. The man fell onto his backside.
“It’s just the system, sir. I’m only trying to explain how it works!” The man yelped, his mustache quivering.
“You’ll change the system as I see fit, or I’ll have you hanging in Boston by the end of the day.”
Meg must have wanted to put an end to Coe’s threats, because she rushed to the desk. “We told you his name: Hackett Bromley. Just tell us where to find him.”
The man rubbed at his reddened throat. “He’s consulting on weapons development at the Colonial Espionage Bureau: Mechanics Division. Second ring. North sector.”
“Thank you,” Meg said. She grabbed Coe by the arm and hauled him away f
rom the desk. “We don’t need to waste any more time.”
Charlotte was more than happy to leave the Inventors’ Guild office behind. She would have been even happier to see a torch put to the place. They took the elevator to the Hive’s second level and walked the circumference of the ring to its north end. The mustached man hadn’t misdirected them. Coe opened a door bearing the plate: CEB: MECHANICS DIVISION.
To Charlotte’s surprise, Grave went through the door first. Ash and Charlotte hurried after him. The room was full of long worktables. Goggled men wielding tools were hunched over contraptions of all shapes and sizes. They were astoundingly dedicated to their craft. Not a single man looked up when the door banged shut behind Coe.
“It’s probably best if I handle this,” Coe told them.
Moving to the fore of the room, Coe cleared his throat, then announced in a booming voice, “Gentlemen, your attention, please.”
A dozen pairs of eyes, made unnaturally large by their owners’ goggles, were suddenly on Coe. No one moved, nor did anyone speak.
“Mr. Hackett Bromley,” Coe said, “would you please identify yourself?”
At the fourth table back on the right side, a man slid from his stool and removed his wool cap.
“I’m Bromley, sir.” He stepped into the space between the two rows of tables.
Charlotte held her breath. Though his skin was ruddy rather than colorless, there was no mistaking the resemblance to Grave.
Behind Charlotte, Meg whispered, “Not a goose chase.”
“If you’d step outside with me, please.” Coe returned to the door and opened it.
While his fellows went back to their work, Bromley came forward, twisting his cap in his hands. He was almost to Coe when he noticed Grave standing beside Ash. Bromley halted, his mouth forming an O of surprise. Then he looked at Coe again. And bolted.
With a shout, Coe dashed after Bromley, leaving the rest of them to scramble behind the pair. Coe chased Bromley along the ring’s perimeter, but as they ran, Grave passed Charlotte, Ash, and Meg, gaining steadily on Coe and Bromley. Rushing past Coe, Grave reached out and grabbed the back of Bromley’s leather apron.
Grave pulled up suddenly, and Bromley jerked back with a cry.
Coe spoke low and quickly. “Grave, take him into the side passage. We can’t have him causing a scene.”
Though the boy was half Bromley’s size, he had no trouble wrestling the terrified inventor off the main walkway.
They huddled in the narrow corridor. Grave had Bromley pinned to the wall.
“Oh, my boy, my boy.” Bromley was trembling. “What have they done to you?”
“Why did you run from me, Father?” Grave asked him.
“Father?” Charlotte edged her way closer to Grave. “Do you remember him?”
“Yes,” Grave answered. “He’s my father. The Maker.”
“What’s he talking about?” Ash frowned.
“I have no idea,” Charlotte said quietly. “He didn’t know Rosemary—and she claimed to be his mother.”
Bromley was gazing at Grave as if he didn’t know whether to be relieved or to despair. “What have you told them about me?”
“Nothing,” Charlotte answered for Grave. “I have no idea why he recognizes you when he hasn’t been able to tell us his own name.”
As if seeing for the first time that their party comprised more than Coe and Grave, Bromley gave Charlotte a puzzled look. “Who are you? You can’t all be from the CEB.”
“None of us are from the CEB, chap,” Coe said. “But don’t think for an instant that makes us less of a danger to you.”
“But you’re military,” Bromley said to Coe.
“I’m not in research,” Coe replied. “And that’s all you need to know about me for the time being.”
Bromley cringed and looked at Grave. “Can you let me go, boy? You’re hurting me.”
Grave tilted his head, as if confused by the statement, but released his grip on the older man. Rubbing his upper arms, Bromley stared in wonder at Grave.
“So strong,” he murmured. “I suspected that, but there was no way to be sure.”
“We have a lot of questions to which you seem to be the only one with answers,” Ash said, drawing Bromley out of his musings. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
Bromley hesitated, then relented. “I have a room on the fifth ring. We can go there.”
“You live alone?” Ashley asked.
“Yes,” Bromley said. “We won’t be bothered. I’ve already met my quota for the week, so if I don’t return to the workshop today, it won’t be a problem.”
“Good,” Coe said. “Let’s go, then.” He kept his hand on Bromley’s shoulder as the inventor led them to the elevator bank.
Charlotte caught Grave’s hand, holding him back. When he looked at her, his tawny eyes were sad.
“You remember, don’t you?” Charlotte squeezed his fingers. “Seeing Bromley brought your memory back.”
“Not all of it,” Grave said softly. “But I remember something important.”
“What?” Charlotte asked.
“Dying.”
24.
CHARLOTTE DIDN’T LET go of Grave’s hand, though she was afraid to keep holding it.
He must be mistaken. He’s been upset because of Bromley, but what he told me can’t be true. It can’t.
On the fifth ring, Bromley took them down a long, narrow side corridor until he stopped in front of a metal door identical to ten others on either side of the hall. A tin plate affixed to the door read H. BROMLEY.
The room was cramped and had no windows. A bed crowded against a writing desk and stool. In a narrow alcove, Charlotte spotted a washbasin and toilet.
Bromley made his way to the bed and sat down. Grave left Charlotte’s side and sat on the bed with the man he’d called both Father and Maker. Coe took the stool and perched like a watchman near Bromley. Charlotte, Ash, and Meg stood in a cluster near the door.
As their silence filled the small room, Bromley lapsed into staring at Grave.
“I didn’t think you’d return,” Bromley murmured.
“But you sent him away,” Ash said pointedly. “He was wandering alone when we found him.”
When I found him, Charlotte thought.
Bromley bowed his head. “I had no choice. The boy couldn’t stay here.”
“Why are you calling him 'the boy'?” Charlotte asked. “Is he your son or not?”
“You think it’s a simple question,” Bromley replied. “But you’re wrong about that.”
Meg moved farther into the room and knelt on the floor in front of Bromley. “Your wife, Rosemary, sent us here.”
Bromley’s head jerked up. “You’ve seen her?”
“At the temple,” Meg said. “She recognized Grave as her son. But she also said her son had died.”
“Yes,” Bromley said, his expression wan. “Our son died.”
“This is ridiculous.” Ash ground the heel of his boot into the floor. “We didn’t bring a dead boy here.”
Bromley’s laugh was hollow, but it was Grave who spoke.
“Yes, you did. But you didn’t know it.”
“It’s coming back to you, isn’t it, boy?” Bromley asked Grave sadly. “I’m not surprised, given that it all happened here in the Hive.”
Grave nodded, then sighed.
“You must be related,” Ash snarled. “Because you’re clearly both mad.”
“Hush, Ashley,” Meg chided. “They’re telling us the end of a story, but we need to know the beginning.”
Ash ground his teeth but held his tongue.
Meg looked up at the inventor. “You’re the one who must tell us this tale.”
Bromley gazed at Meg’s upturned face, and the tension eased from his limbs. His
voice took on a dreamy quality.
“The day my son was born, I was the happiest man that ever was,” Bromley said. “How could something so perfect as my own child bring a curse upon my life? I never thought it could be so.”
“Illness is not a curse. There is something else that caused your sorrow, something hidden. Reveal it to us.” Meg spoke in a slow, soothing tone.
Bromley moaned. His jaw clenched as if he was in pain, but he didn’t look away from Meg’s steady gaze. “I only wanted to save him.”
“Your son.” Meg nodded. “As any father would.”
“But I am not any father,” Bromley whispered. “I am an inventor.”
“You invented something you hoped would save your child?” Meg asked.
“Yes.” Bromley’s voice shook. “But I had to let him go before I could bring him back.”
“The child died?” Meg inched closer to Bromley.
Bromley’s fingers dug into the mattress. “It wasn’t his fault. He was born with a body too frail. I wanted to make him stronger.”
Meg asked softly, “How?”
“In the mysteries of Athene and the fires of Hephaestus,” Bromley said. “That is where I found the answer.”
Bromley stood up and reached past Coe toward the writing table. Bromley slid his hand beneath the table. Charlotte heard a click, and something dropped into Bromley’s waiting hand. When he sat on the bed again, he was holding a book. The cover was plain; the pages were bound in black leather. Meg took it from him.
When she opened the book and read its opening lines, she drew a hissing breath.
“What is it?” Ashley tried to look over Meg’s shoulder, but she closed the cover and tucked it in the folds of her skirt to keep it out of sight.
Meg was looking at Grave, scrutinizing him.
“I know what you’re looking for,” Bromley said to her. “You won’t find it.”
“Why not?” Meg snapped, her soothing tone retreated before anger.
“My innovation,” Bromley said. “Restructure the body before reviving it.”
Meg stood up. “What is he?” She pointed at Grave.
“Flesh and blood,” Bromley answered. “But blood is iron, and bone can become steel. The heart and lungs are but machines. If built with skill, they will run perpetually and perfectly.”