No; for this plan to work – to strike a blow against empire from which it could not recover – they had to stay, and say the words again and again, and activate as many nodes of destruction as they could.
But how did he tell a room full of people that they needed to die?
‘I . . .’ he started, but the words stuck in his throat.
He didn’t have to explain. They’d all figured it out; they were all reaching the same conclusion, one after the other, and the change in their eyes was heartbreaking.
‘I’m going through with it,’ he said. ‘I’m not asking all of you to come with me – Abel can get you out if you won’t – but all I mean is . . . I just – I can’t do it by myself.’
Victoire looked away, arms crossed.
‘We won’t need everyone,’ he continued, desperate to fill the silence with words because, perhaps the more he spoke it, the less awful it sounded. ‘I suppose a diversity of languages would be good, to amplify the effect – and of course, we’ll want people standing in all corners of the tower, because . . .’ His throat pulsed. ‘But we don’t need everyone.’
‘I’ll stay,’ said Professor Craft.
‘I . . . thank you, Professor.’
She gave him a wobbly smile. ‘I suppose I wasn’t going to get tenure on the other side of this anyhow.’
He saw them all making the same calculation then: the finality of death against the persecution, prison, and possible execution they would face on the outside. Surviving Babel did not necessarily mean survival. And he could see them asking themselves if they could come to terms, now, with their own deaths; if that would, in the end, be easier.
‘You’re not afraid,’ Meghana told him, asked him.
‘No,’ said Robin. But that was all he could say. He didn’t understand his heart himself. He felt resolved, but perhaps that was only the adrenaline; perhaps his fear and hesitation were only pushed temporarily behind a flimsy wall, which would shatter upon closer examination. ‘No, I’m not, I . . . just – I’m ready. But we won’t need everyone.’
‘Possibly the younger students . . .’ Professor Craft cleared her throat. ‘The ones who don’t know any silver-working, I mean. There’s no reason—’
‘I want to stay.’ Ibrahim cast Juliana an anxious glance. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t want to run.’
Juliana, pale as paper, said nothing.
‘There is a way out?’ Yusuf asked Robin.
‘There is. Abel’s men can ferry you out of the city, they’ve promised; they’re waiting for us. But you’ll have to go as soon as you can. And then you’ll have to run. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop running.’
‘There are no terms of amnesty?’ Meghana asked.
‘There are if you work for them,’ said Robin. ‘If you help them restore things back to how they were. Letty made that offer, she wanted you to know. But you’ll always be under their thumb. They’ll never let you go. She intimated as much – they’ll own you, and they’ll make you feel grateful for it.’
At this, Juliana reached out and took Ibrahim’s hand. He squeezed her fingers. Both their knuckles turned white, and the sight of this was so intimate that Robin blinked and glanced away.
‘But we can still run,’ said Yusuf.
‘You can still run,’ said Robin. ‘You wouldn’t be safe anywhere in this country—’
‘But we could go home.’
Victoire’s voice was so soft that they could barely hear her. ‘We can go home.’
Yusuf nodded, considered this a moment, and then moved to stand beside her.
And it was that simple, the determination of who fled and who died. Robin, Professor Craft, Meghana, Ibrahim, and Juliana on one side. Yusuf and Victoire on the other. No one pleaded or begged, and no one changed their minds.
‘So.’ Ibrahim looked very small. ‘When—’
‘Dawn,’ said Robin. ‘They’re coming at dawn.’
‘Then we’d better stack the bars,’ said Professor Craft. ‘And we’d better place them properly, if we only get one go.’
‘What’s the word?’ Abel Goodfellow demanded. ‘They’re inching right up to us.’
‘Send your men home,’ Robin said.
‘What?’
‘As quick as you can. Get out of the barricades and go on the run. There’s not much time. The Guards – they don’t care about casualties anymore.’
Abel registered this, then nodded. ‘Who’s coming with us?’
‘Just two. Yusuf. Victoire. They’re saying their goodbyes, they’ll be ready soon.’ Robin pulled a wrapped parcel from inside his jacket. ‘There’s also this.’
Abel must have read something in his face, heard something in his voice, because his eyes narrowed. ‘And what are the rest of you up to in there?’
‘I shouldn’t tell you.’
Abel raised the parcel. ‘Is this a suicide note?’
‘It’s a written record,’ said Robin. ‘Of everything that’s happened in this tower. What we stood for. There’s a second copy, but in case it gets lost – I know you’ll find some way to get this out there. Print it all over England. Tell them what we did. Make them remember us.’ Abel looked like he wanted to argue, but Robin shook his head. ‘Please, my mind’s made up, and there’s not much time. I can’t explain this, and I think it’s best if you don’t ask.’
Abel watched him for a moment, then seemed to think better of what it was he was about to say. ‘You’ll end this?’
‘We’re going to try.’ Robin’s chest felt very tight. He was so exhausted; he wanted to curl up on the ground and go to sleep. He wanted this to be over. ‘But I can’t tell you more tonight. I just need you to go.’
Abel thrust out his arm. ‘Then this, I suppose, is goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’ Robin grasped his palm and shook it. ‘Oh – and the blankets, I forgot—’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Abel wrapped his other hand over Robin’s. His grip was so warm, solid. Robin felt a catch in his throat; he was grateful that Abel was making this easy, that he hadn’t forced him to justify himself. He had to go swiftly, resolute to the very end.
‘Good luck, Robin Swift.’ Abel squeezed his hand. ‘God be with you.’
They spent the hours before dawn arranging hundreds of silver bars into pyramids at vulnerable points around the tower – around the base supports, beneath the windows, along the walls and bookshelves, and in veritable pyramids around the Grammaticas. They could not predict the scope, the scale, of the destruction, but they would prepare for it as well as they could, would make it near impossible to salvage any material from the remains.
Victoire and Yusuf left an hour after midnight. Their farewells were brief, constrained. It was an impossible parting; there was too much and yet nothing to say, and there was a sense that everyone was holding back for fear of opening the floodgates. If they said too little, they would regret it forever. If they said too much, they’d never bring themselves to part.
‘Safe travels,’ Robin whispered, embracing Victoire.
She choked out a laugh. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
They clung to each other for a long time, long enough that at last, once everyone had left to give them privacy, they were the only two standing in the lobby. Finally she stepped back, glanced round, eyes darting back and forth as if she was unsure whether to speak.
‘You don’t think this will work,’ said Robin.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You’re thinking it.’
‘I’m just terrified that we’ll make this grand statement.’ She lifted her hands, let them fall. ‘And they’ll see it only as a temporary setback, something to recover from. That they’ll never understand what we meant.’
‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think they were ever going to listen.’
‘No, I don’t think they were.’ She was crying again. ‘Oh, Robin, I don’t know what to—’
‘Just go,’ he said. ‘And write to Ramy’s parents, will you? I just – they ought to know.’
She nodded, gave him one last, tight squeeze, and then darted out the door to the green where Yusuf and Abel’s men were waiting. One last wave – Victoire’s stricken expression under the moonlight – and then they were gone.