The Guild Conspiracy (2 page)

“Of course I could,” she snapped. She peered down the hall toward the council chambers. “Not that it matters to them.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think? They want a war machine. Anything less isn't worth their time.”

“Then why don't you build one? A war machine, I mean.”

She glanced sharply at the soldier.

“That's what they want from you, isn't it?” he went on. “Why the minister is so angry with you, why the council keeps rejecting your projects. I overheard them talking. You've applied to the Guild five times in the last six months, but none of your proposals were for war technology. Why not? If you built what they wanted, they'd accept you into the Guild, wouldn't they?”

“Probably.”

“Then why don't you?”

“Because becoming a Guild engineer isn't worth
that
,” she said. “If I earn my certification, I want it to be on my own terms, not theirs.”

Not that she had a choice. Julian had made that very clear.

“Could you, though?” he asked, a hesitancy to his voice. “If you wanted to? Could you build a war machine?”

She dropped her gaze to the floor, thinking of the automaton she and Emmerich had built together the previous summer, how brilliant it had been when Emmerich powered it up for the first time, all its gears exposed, whirring and ticking with musical synchronicity. It had been a terrible, wonderful thing to behold, a beautiful monstrosity . . . capable of so much destruction.

Yes, she could build a war machine. She already had.

But she never wanted to build another like it, not for the rest of her life.

Petra turned away from the soldier and checked her pocket watch—­less than a half-­hour until her next lecture. “I should be going,” she said, returning the pocket watch to the waist of her skirt. “I have to get to class.”

The soldier stepped forward. “Wait, I—­I didn't meant to offend. If I have, I apologize. Forgive my curiosity. It wasn't my intent.”

“Don't bother yourself,” she said, waving him away. “I'm used to it.”

“I didn't introduce myself before,” he said, laying a hand on his chest and executing a formal bow. “Braith Cartwright, Officer Cadet of Her Imperial Majesty's Royal Forces, at your ser­vice.”

She eyed him warily and then offered her hand. “Petra.”

The faint twitch of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and he took her hand—­not delicately, as he might have taken a lady's, but deliberately, like an equal. He gave it a firm shake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Petra,” he said. Then his smile broadened, a handsome change to his reserved demeanor. “You can call me Braith.”

P
etra spent her combustion-­enginery lecture mulling over Julian's threats, barely listening as Professor Calligaris droned on about piston chambers and increasing cubic capacity to improve engine efficiency.

How soon would Julian expect her to comply with his demands? How much longer could she resist him? She didn't want to give in, but what choice did she have? Julian's ultimatum was clear. Cooperate, or face judgement for her crimes—­that was her choice. Dead, she was of no use to anyone, but to agree? To build what he wanted? No, she needed to find another way to divert his plans, act against the war without openly declaring herself against him.

There had to be a way to beat him, even now.

She pulled out her mother's pocket watch, watching the slow movement of the minute hand as it ticked across the gilded face.

Emmerich would know what to do.

The last time they spoke, he told her to wait, but for what? For how long? She had delayed and resisted for six months, and neither of them were any closer to stopping this war.

It had been months since they had spoken, months since she had heard his voice—­nothing but a handful of sparse telegrams, a single handwritten letter, and one telephone call at the end of September, her only word of him since he arrived in Paris.

Either he was too busy to return her letters, or Julian, despite promises of allowing them to maintain contact, was scheming to keep them apart. She didn't want to consider the third option—­that he didn't
want
to talk to her.

She hated it. The silence. The lack of communication. The not knowing.

Above all, she missed him, and she hated him for it.

She hated him for his cowardice, for agreeing to his father's demands, for leaving. He had given in, letting his father control his life because it was easier than standing up for himself, because he thought it would keep her safe.

Safe.
Petra scoffed. She was anything but safe.

All Emmerich's sacrifice had bought her was loneliness.

With a sharp crack, Professor Calligaris slammed his wooden pointer down on her desk, and she jumped an inch out of her chair, suddenly aware of the classroom full of students. She clenched her jaw, anger bubbling up her throat as she blinked away the sting of tears.

“Pay attention, Miss Wade,” drawled the professor. “Your knowledge of advanced machinery is already lacking. It wouldn't do for you to fall further behind.”

Petra's cheeks flamed, but she said nothing, gritting her teeth with as much force as she could muster. If her marks were low, it wasn't for lack of knowledge. Her talents were wasted in a classroom, all those hours spent on lectures and diagrams and pointless essays. Give her a screwdriver, and she'd engineer circles around any other student here. Not that Calligaris would ever allow her to prove it. The workshops remained off-­limits to her, by order of the Guild council. She had Julian to thank for that.

Calligaris smirked and returned to the front of the classroom to resume his lecture, but the bell rang before he could continue.

“Don't forget,” he called out to the shuffle of departing students, “your essays on the evolution of commercial engines are due on Monday. I expect a minimum of five pages.”

There was a collective groan among the other students as they gathered their things to leave. Chairs and desks scraped as the others left the lecture hall, starting up idle conversations as they headed toward the door. Petra quietly scooped up her unused pencils and shoved her unopened textbook and blank notepaper into her bag, waiting until most of the students had gone ahead before standing up from her desk, not keen on giving anyone an excuse to pester her.

But as she stood, two boys brushed past, knocking her into the nearest desk as they hurried by. She stumbled backward and tried to catch herself, losing her grip on her bag. It flopped open at her feet, its contents spilling everywhere. Pencils rolled across the floor, her notes scattered, and textbooks tumbled down the stairs, the cloth-­bound covers fluttering open before landing page-­side down with a loud flump.

The boys laughed as they retreated through the door.

Petra fumed. Just once, she'd like to leave class in peace—­without insults, without any teasing, without having to recover her things because some stuck-­up bastard decided they had a right to upend the contents of her bag. Running her fingers through her already disheveled hair, she set to collecting her things from the floor for what felt like the thousandth time since she first started classes at the University.

As she reached for the last of her things, she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. She tensed, expecting it to be another student who had made it their solemn vow to make her life a living hell, but when she turned around, she relaxed, recognizing her friend Rupert, with his sandy-­blond hair and easy smile. He came down the stairs at a leisurely stride, hands in his pockets. He grinned and crouched beside her at the bottom landing, picking up her last textbook.

“Selby again?” he asked, handing her the copy of
Advanced Rotary Mechanics
.

“Not this time,” she said, tucking the book into her bag. “Selby usually likes to insult me first.” She stood and massaged her brow, already exhausted despite the day being only half-­over.

“Don't let it get to you,” he said, nudging her arm. “They'll grow bored of you eventually.”

She laughed dryly. “Yes, of course they will. Maybe when I'm no longer a student here, maybe
then
they'll leave me alone.”

“When you prove to them you belong here, they will.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” she asked. “I've been here six months, Rupert. Six
months
, and they
still
treat me like this. Nothing I do is going to change that.”

Rupert shrugged, a sly smile on his face. “You never know.” He took the bag of books and papers from her hands and draped the strap over his chest. “So, how did your Guild proposal go?” he asked, leading the way up the stairs to the exit.

She groaned. “About as well as the last one. Worse, in fact.”

“Have you thought of another idea to pitch?”

Petra shook her head, a hollow pit opening in her chest at the thought of what her next project would likely be. “Not yet.”

He nudged her arm. “Don't worry. I'm sure you'll think of something. You always do.”

They stopped at the classroom door. Students milled about the hallway, a shifting stream of engineers heading to their next classes. Petra still had another hour of lecture left before she finished for the day. Maybe by then she would come up with a plan for how to delay Julian's war.

Rupert leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. “Listen . . . if you think you might be up for it, there's a thing tonight, after hours. Might cheer you up, help you get your mind off this whole Guild business.”

“I doubt there's anything that could do that right now.”

“That's only because you don't know what it is,” he said with a grin.

She looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

He slid her bag over his head and handed it to her. “Meet me at the University side entrance after hours—­ten o'clock,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There's a sort of . . . meeting going on in the recreation hall between some of the students. You'll want to be there.”

Petra narrowed her eyes. “What sort of meeting?”

Rupert grinned. “You'll see.” He checked the time on the wall clock next to the door. “I have to head to my next class, but I'll see you tonight?” he said, starting down the hall. “Ten o'clock. At the side door. And wear trousers,” he added. “Don't want anyone recognizing you.”

“Trousers?”

“Trust me,” he said, walking backward against the stream of oncoming students. “So, you'll come?” he asked, more persuasion than question.

She suppressed a laugh. “All right,” she finally agreed. “I'll be there. Now get to class. You'll be late.”

He grinned. “Ten o'clock. Don't forget.”

 

CHAPTER 2

N
ight hung over the streets of Chroniker City as Petra crept through the fourth quadrant, the chill of winter still lingering on the air. Adjusting the collar of her coat against the wind, she turned up Medlock Cross and passed the pub, the late-­night sounds of drinking and gambling filtering through the open door.

Ahead, she saw the familiar sign of Stricket & Monfore, a light on somewhere inside. She missed it—­even now, as a student at the University and on her way to becoming a Guild engineer. She missed the late nights working in the back room, Mr. Stricket teaching her the intricacies of clockwork. What she wouldn't give to return to the shop every evening and work with him again, but between her classwork and her failed efforts to join the Guild, she didn't have time. She paused at the display of repaired mechanisms in the window, wondering if it wouldn't have been better had she never met Emmerich that fateful day. If not for him, she never would have created that blasted clockwork automaton and gotten herself into this mess.

But Julian would have managed his war one way or another. His plans went far deeper than Petra's involvement; forcing Emmerich to present his prototype to the Guild, twisting it into a war machine—­that had all come before she ever stepped foot in Emmerich's workshop. What else had he contrived in his madness? She shivered at the thought. He wanted to burn this world with his war and rebuild a new one from the ashes: an age of science with the Guild at its core, but at what cost?

At least this way, she had a chance to stop him.

She moved on from the pawn shop and continued to the University. The street was empty apart from the occasional late-­night worker heading to or from the boilers, and she was grateful her brother no longer worked that shift. He'd moved on to a better life, with a girl he loved and a job that paid him his worth, better than anything he could have hoped to earn working the boilers from sunup to sundown. An ache filled her chest as she realized how long it had been since she had last talked to him—­since she had talked to
anyone
outside of the Guild. Solomon, Emmerich, Mr. Stricket . . . She had lost so much because of Julian and his stupid war.

Petra reached the University square and crept toward the student entrance, hiding in the shadow of a nearby steam duct. Tucking her hair into the brim of her hat, she glanced down at her pocket watch, grazing her fingertips over the intricate
C
that decorated the case—­just a few minutes before ten. She peeked out from her hiding place and searched the empty square, but no sign of Rupert.

With a sigh, she pressed her back against the warm metal of the exposed ductwork and waited, listening to the rush of steam hissing through the pipes. The machines of the subcity rattled and whirred beneath the stone street, synchronized gears and linkages ticking a rhythm of mechanical perfection beneath her feet. She inhaled a deep breath, catching the scent of coal and gasoline amidst the humid air billowing through the grates. It smelled of home.

A few minutes later, the lock above the student entrance unlatched, the gears knocking and grating as ratchets shifted the deadbolts—­added security after the Luddite attacks and the supposed anti-­imperialist infiltration the previous summer. The door creaked inward, and Rupert's blond head peered out, his face lit by the flickering gas lamps at the bottom of the stairs.

“Petra?” he called, his voice barely above a whisper. “You out here?”

She slipped out from behind the steam duct and met him atop the stairs. Rupert opened the door wider, letting her into the narrow hall that sat adjacent to the lobby, before closing the door behind her. He removed his student key from the lock, and heavy gears ratcheted the deadbolts back into place, locking the door with a resounding clunk.

Petra leaned against the smooth brass-­plated wall and breathed in the familiar air of the University, the lingering scents of grease and metal polish putting her at ease. The usual bustle of engineers, students, and professors was absent from the dark, empty lobby, the echo of distant machinery lurking in the shadows like haunting ghosts. Her skin tingled with excitement. It had been months since she'd been here after dark—­when Emmerich was still here and her only worry was keeping their automaton project secret. It seemed an eternity ago now.

Rupert touched her shoulder. “Come on,” he whispered, ushering her forward. “Or we'll miss it.”

He took her to the lift and used his student key to propel them up to the eighth floor, the whirring belts and pulleys singing as they ascended. The lift slowed to an abrupt stop, and the lights above the gates spilled across the hall, startlingly bright in the quiet darkness of the University.

“So what's this meeting about?” she asked Rupert.

“You'll see.”

Their brisk footsteps echoed off the hard floor as Rupert led her down the hall toward the student lounges and recreation room.

As they approached, a muffled cacophony met Petra's ears—­shouts and curses, cheers, a clash of metal on metal, the clear sound of a combustion engine igniting. Petra's heartbeat quickened, and she pressed her ear to the door, feeling the vibrating hum of a purring engine in the room beyond, the sigh of exhaust, the smell of burnt fuel reaching her nose.

Rupert nudged her aside and keyed into the room, the clash of metal rising to a deafening thunder as he opened the door.

Inside, the billiard table, chess tables, chairs, and sofas had been pushed to the walls, the usual carpets and rugs thrown over the furniture. A spotlight illuminated a few dozen students near the center of the room, surrounding a hulk of moving brass, its shiny surface flashing in the glow of the electric light. The crunch of crumpling metal and subsequent jeers echoed off the walls, and the metal beast reeled out of Petra's sight.

Leaving Rupert behind, she elbowed her way through the crowd of students and stumbled headlong into the center of the ring. A quick hand caught her by the collar and yanked her back into the crowd just as a metal arm swiped through the air, inches from her nose.

Petra stumbled into the student next to her, gaping in delighted disbelief at the scene before her. Two imposing metal figures stood in the center of the ring—­a squat trapezoidal machine and a grotesque humanoid—­dripping oil and smelling of exhaust. Jagged trenches tore through the outer shell of the larger machine, exposing a mesh of combustion enginery and electrical wiring inside, while the smaller, wheeled contraption had a stump of shredded linkages and twisted gears where its second arm should have been, its stout body half-­crushed and front wheels bent.

The bipedal machine lunged, much to the crowd's delight, and there was a terrible, teeth-­grinding crunch as the metal shells crumpled and warped on impact. The biped hammered its fist into the squat trapezoid, the blocky machine's outer shell buckling under the assault. Yet the smaller contraption held its ground, wheels spinning forward as it pressed against the hulking mass of metal, its remaining arm buried halfway into the biped's central system, pulling wires and tubes from its body like rubber intestines, oil and hydraulic fluid spilling onto the floor.

With a sputtering whine, the combustion engine rumbled to a halt, the spin of gears slowing to a groan as the mechanical biped powered down. The heavily damaged trapezoid pushed the biped away, and the mutation of combustion enginery and electricity toppled over with a resounding crash.

Silence followed.

And then the room erupted in cheers.

From the far side of the ring, a young man stepped forward and waved the crowd into silence. Petra recognized him by his long, narrow face and shrewd eyes—­Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon's son, Yancy. Though with his bright blond hair and dashing smile, he carried none of the somber gravitas of his father.

Yancy spread his hands wide. “Gentlemen! I believe we have our winner!”

He gestured to one side of the ring, and the winning engineer stepped forward. Black hair and blue eyes, a cocky grin on his smug face: John
bloody
Selby. Petra scowled, her admiration dissipating in an instant. Since her first day at the University, Selby had made it his vow to make her studentship as miserable as possible, mocking her for everything from her gender to her station, insulting her intelligence at every turn. Insufferable prat.

The fact that he was a decent engineer—­a
good
one, actually—­only made her hate him more.

“As winner,” continued Yancy, “Selby gets the twenty-­pound pot and bragging rights until next tournament.”

Selby swept into a low bow, tucking a metal control box behind his back. Petra noted the thick cord of coated wire trailing from the brass case, snaking across the oil-­slicked floor to the back of the trapezoidal machine. So that was how he controlled it.

She suppressed a smirk. Rudimentary technology.

If she could get her hands on the right tools, she could make use of Emmerich's wireless control apparatus to operate such a machine. She was familiar enough with the science now to do it herself, but there would be certain challenges involved applying it for this kind of use, she wagered.

Rupert squeezed in beside her. “What do you think?”

“It's brilliant,” she said, her voice nearly lost amidst the cheers and shouts around them. “How long has this been going on?”

“Started about midterm, last semester. You know about the failed automaton project, right? Some of the boys who work in the armory found the remains of it and got the idea to start a mechanical fight ring.”

Petra pressed her mouth shut and nodded. So they had kept it then, the ruined prototype that Emmerich had so expertly smashed through the floor of his workshop—­now collecting dust in the armory. The failed automaton project. That was what the rest of them called it, not knowing she had helped design and build it, not knowing what her involvement had cost her.

She recalled the events that led to its “failure” with vivid clarity. None of them knew what had really happened that day, not even Rupert. There were whispers, of course, and rumors, but the anti-­imperialist plot, the lies of her treason, the conspiracy to start a war, her involvement with Emmerich and the automaton . . . all pardoned and forgotten, erased from all records thanks to Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon.

“Where do they get the parts?” she asked.

“Discards and surplus from the workshops,” said Rupert. “Some of the richer blokes buy parts offshore and have them shipped in. Most of it is scrap, though.”

In the center of the ring, Yancy quieted the crowd with a wave of his hand and then cleared his throat. “That concludes the inaugural competition of our mech fights.” Another boy brought forward an end table and handed Yancy a pad of paper and a pencil. “If you wish to participate in the next tournament,” he said, waving the paper over his head, “sign up by the first bell tomorrow and have your mech ready for the first round sometime next month, date to be decided. If you're new to the fights, make sure you get the rules from me or John before you build your machine. Entry fee is a pound note—­or equivalent—­the sum of all entries to be rewarded to our next winner.”

He dropped the paper and pencil onto the table, and a handful of students stepped forward to enter. Petra watched as they scribbled their names, one after the other, knowing she could outmaneuver every single one of them with a machine of her own.

For six long months, she'd been stuck in boring classrooms, listening to dry lectures and permitted to do nothing more than scribble designs on paper and write academic essays. She missed the feel of a screwdriver in her hand, the smell of grease under her fingernails, the late nights of working with her hands deep inside a machine.

She
yearned
for it.

Rupert nudged her with his elbow. “Go on. Sign up.”

Petra considered it, absently twisting the stem of her pocket watch between her thumb and forefinger. She could enter, write her name down and fight in the next tournament, finally have the chance to
build
something again. Yet . . . she knew they wouldn't let her. Selby, Yancy, all the rest of them, they'd only laugh at her, mock her for thinking she could compete with them, for thinking she was their equal.

She stared at the sign-­up sheet, the determination to prove herself burning in her chest.

To hell with them.

She'd win the damn tournament and show them just how good an engineer she really was. She belonged here, building machines alongside the best of them. She'd win, and then they'd see.

She released the breath she'd been holding and stepped forward, heart beating faster. Leaning over the table, she took the pencil into her hand and pressed the point of graphite to the paper, quickly scribbling her name at the bottom of the list of entrants before she second-­guessed herself.

As she penned the last letter of her name, the slip of paper whipped out from under her hand, leaving a long line of graphite trailing down the page.

“This has to be a joke.”

Gritting her teeth, she raised her gaze to the boy standing across the table. “Something wrong, Selby?” she asked, propping a hand on her hip. Rupert was at her side in an instant.

Selby's gaze swept over her disguise—­her brother's old trousers and loose shirt, hair tucked into her hat. He wrinkled his nose. “Yance,” he called. “Come see who's signed up for the next tournament.”

Lyndon's son wandered over, and Selby passed the paper to him.

Yancy scanned the list of names, finally reaching the bottom. “Petra . . .
Wade
?” There was a disapproving murmur among the students as Yancy glanced up from the paper, a deep frown on his face as he recognized her through her disguise. “You can't be serious.”

“And why not?” she asked. Her face burned, heat rising up her cheeks, but she refused to back down. “I'm a student. I can pay the entry fee. Let me fight.”