The Guild Conspiracy

by Brooke Johnson

A few steps further and she found the access ladder, six inches wide and bolted into the wall. She stepped off the mesh walkway and descended into the inky black darkness below. Soon it swallowed her up, and she closed her eyes against the shadows, focusing on the feel of the rungs beneath her sweaty palms, descending deeper one foothold, one handhold at a time.

  Then the world seemed to open up around her, and her shoes met thin carpet, the air here suddenly cooler, laced with a musty, stale scent. Feeling her way along the walls, her fingers brushed over electrical panels, switches, and shielded cables until finally, she found the exit. Turning the handle, she eased the door open, allowing a tiny chink of light into the room just as Braith reached the bottom of the ladder. He crossed the tiny maintenance room and peered out.

  “It’s clear,” he said.

  The maintenance room opened to the second floor of the library, the tiny room tucked behind a row of disused shelves, each one filled to the brim with dusty books. The rest of the library was empty and dark, lit only by the dim glow of a few desk lamps left on in the wide atrium below. The hour was late, well past student curfew, and the library was closed.

  Petra breathed a sigh of relief, safe from the coppers and Mr. Fowler for the time being. She deflated against the nearest shelf of books and glanced at Braith. “What do we do now?”

  He shrugged, worrying at a thick scar at the edge of his bottom lip. “All we can do: get back to the dormitory before anyone finds us missing, and hope to hell no one catches us on the way.”

  “But how? The entire school is probably crawling with coppers now. You heard Fowler. They’ll search the whole University until they find me.”

  “Then they’d better find you in your room, where you’re supposed to be. I shouldn’t need to remind you what happens if we’re caught out.”

  Petra muttered a curse, fighting the urge to kick the shelf behind her. “There’s no way we’ll make it there without being caught.”

  “We can if we hurry. They can’t cover the entire University at once, and they’ll focus their search on this building first, starting with the eighth floor and spreading outward from there. We just have to get to the dormitories before they do.”

  “And if we don’t?” she asked, her voice breaking. “If we’re caught?”

  The lines of his face hardened. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  From the library, they made their way to the dormitories, pausing at every corner, every doorway, descending quickly down a remote stairwell and stealing down long, abandoned hallways, praying in silence that the coppers stayed far behind them.

  Soon, they reached the corridor joining the main building to the dormitories. The night sky was cloudy and moonless beyond the high arching windows. The shadows here were thick and dark, no electric light to alert anyone to their passing. They crept along in deathly silence, neither of them daring to speak. Taking the stairwell furthest from the dormitory lobby, they climbed the steps to the seventh floor. With each flight of stairs, a feeling of dread wrapped like a noose around Petra’s throat, pulling tighter and tighter with each step she climbed. As they reached her floor and opened the door into the hallway, she realized why.

  Julian Goss was standing at her door, waiting for her.

  Braith cursed under his breath and jerked her back into the shelter of the stairwell, his grip firm on her waist. Petra flattened herself against the wall, every muscle rigid with the need to flee. But there was no way out of it now, no chance she could escape.

  “I want her found now,” said Julian, his melodious voice thin and sharp. “Her and her damned military guard. Search the Guild workshops next, and when you find her, bring her straight to me.”

  She frowned up at Braith. “What now?”

  His eyes flashed in the low light of the stairwell. “I don’t know.”

  Petra swallowed hard. “If Julian suspects I was anywhere near the Guild workshops . . . if he suspects me of sabotage—­”

  “I know.” Braith gritted his teeth and curled his hand into a fist, pressing his knuckles into the wall. “We can’t let him think you were in the workshops—­or at the mech fights,” he whispered. “Even if you weren’t off sabotaging the quadruped like he suspects, you aren’t supposed to be out this late, especially not off fighting in a very illegal mechanical combat tournament.” He drew away from the door and ran his fingers through his wavy golden-­brown hair, tugging the length away from his brow. “Damn it! We can’t just sit here and wait for his men to find us. We need a plan.”

  She shook her head. “I doesn’t matter what we do,” she said, her voice sticking in her throat. “He’ll suspect me anyway. I disobeyed him. That’s all the justification he needs.”

  “Then we’ll just have to convince him otherwise,” he said. “He can’t accuse you of sabotage without proof.”

  She scoffed. “You just don’t get it, do you? What we say doesn’t matter. The truth doesn’t matter. Julian will convince himself of whatever reality benefits him most, and if that means accusing me of sabotage to further his aims, then that’s what he’ll do. I’m nothing but a pawn to be moved and sacrificed as needed, a cog in his grand machine. As soon as I outlive my usefulness, he will do whatever it takes to dispose of me.”

  “Petra, one man can’t just do as he pleases without consequences. The real world doesn’t work that way.”

  “His world does.”

  “Well, mine doesn’t. I don’t care who he thinks he is, I will not let him apprehend you for something you didn’t do.” He turned toward the brightly lit hallway and peered through the door, his brow furrowed.

  “And if he orders you to?” she asked. “If he tries to convince you of my guilt? What then?”

  Her heartbeat quickened, the real question lurking just beneath the surface, the same question that had divided them ever since he had the misfortune of becoming her guard . . .

  Which will you choose, Braith—­me, or him?

  “You’re still a soldier,” she said, risking a step closer. “He could order you to arrest me.”

  Braith hesitated. “He might,” he said, turning toward her. “But I would rather lose my uniform than let him arrest you for a crime you didn’t commit.”

  Petra stood a little straighter. “You mean that?”

  The twitch of a smile raised the corner of his mouth. “Damned if I do—­but for you?” His eyes met hers for the span of a heartbeat, the blue-­gray of his irises like dawn breaking through a storm. “I would—­gladly.”

  A flush burned her cheeks, and she bit back a smile. “I assume you have a plan?”

  “Part of one,” he said, edging toward the hall. “Just follow my lead.”

  “Wait. What are you—­”

  But he was already slipping through the door and down the hall, heading toward Julian and the coppers.

  Petra had no choice but to follow.

  Julian stood outside her dormitory with his back to them, facing a pair of black-­uniformed coppers, their faces rapt with attention. “One of you go wake the colonel and tell him one of his officers is missing, the one assigned to Miss Wade. Inform him—­”

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Braith interrupted.

  Julian turned, his eyes sweeping over the two of them with dark calculation in his gaze. “I see Mr. Fowler was not mistaken in sending for me,” he said coolly. He turned to the coppers at his side and waved them forward. “Take her into custody.”

  Petra shied away, but Braith grabbed her by the arm and stepped in front of her, shielding her from the two men.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but on what charges?” he asked.

  “For suspicion of illicit activities,” he said evenly, glancing over Petra’s boyish attire. “Miss Wade is suspected of being involved in an illegal mechanical fight ring in the student recreation hall. An activity, I would surmise, that y
ou allowed—­and even attended yourself, given your lack of uniform. I should remind you that such activities are in direct opposition to your orders, Officer Cartwright. As such—­”

  “I’m sorry, minister, but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow,” Braith interrupted, drawing to his full height. He stood almost eye to eye with Julian now, the effect of his usual stolid manner somewhat stymied by his lack of uniform, but he commanded an air of authority nonetheless. “Miss Wade and I were in the library this evening.”

  Julian faltered. “The library?”

  “Yes, so you must understand my confusion,” Braith went on. “I know nothing of a mechanical fight ring—­should such a thing exist. We have been in the library for the better part of the last two hours, and I can assure you there has been nothing of incidence to concern you with.”

  “Nothing of incidence?”

  “That’s right.”

  Julian regarded Braith with a newfound measure of suspicion. “I see . . .” he said, the glint of a hard smile at the edge of his cruel mouth. He would punish Braith for this; Petra was certain of it. She had lived long enough in Julian’s shadow to know that there was nothing he hated more than disobedience. To stand against him was suicide.

  And yet Braith stood firm, undaunted by Julian’s dark gaze. “I would have included this in my report to the colonel tomorrow, if that’s your concern,” he went on. “Though I don’t understand what the fuss is about. Miss Wade is within her rights to visit the library.”

  “Miss Wade has no rights,” Julian snapped, his voice barely above a hiss. “She is a criminal and a threat to the security of the Guild. It is your responsibility to ensure she remains confined to her quarters unless otherwise dictated by her contractual agreement with the Guild. I should not need to remind you who you receive your orders from, Officer, but know this . . .” He leaned close and his voice dropped a few degrees. “If I discover that you have neglected your duty—­or worse, I discover you are lying to me—­this will be the last assignment you ever have as a soldier of the Royal Forces, boy. Do not cross me.”

  Braith didn’t flinch, meeting Julian’s dark gaze. “Of course, sir.”

  “Good.” Julian withdrew then. “In the meantime, I will inform Colonel Kersey of your failure to comply with your orders and see that your pay is docked for the remainder of the month, for your insubordination.”

  Braith stiffened, but said nothing.

  “Should something like this happen again,” the minister went on, arching his brow high, “rest assured—­swift punishment will be made.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Julian clasped his hands behind his back and glanced at Petra. “As for you, I would remind you to behave yourself, Miss Wade. You would not want to risk the revocation of your temporary release.” He smiled acidly. “I hear the weather is rather fine in Pembrokeshire in the late spring.”

  Petra swallowed hard, aware of Braith’s tight grip on her wrist.

  “Should I not see you again before, do enjoy your birthday venture to Hasguard next month,” he said pleasantly, starting toward the door. With a quick gesture, his two coppers went ahead of him, and he paused just long enough to meet Petra’s eyes. “I am sure it will be most diverting.”

  CHAPTER 12

  With the fights canceled, her mech confiscated, and Rupert stuck in detention with the rest of the students caught at the tournament, Petra had nothing to do in her spare time but work toward exposing Julian’s conspiracy. She spent her days working on the quadruped, the prototype advancing rapidly toward completion, and her nights trying to scrounge up enough evidence against Julian to put a stop to this fraudulent war.

  When she was permitted outside her dormitory, she collected whatever outside information she could, newspapers and gossip mostly, searching for clues of what was going on beyond the walls of the University. But after three weeks of trying to gather evidence against Julian, she was no closer to finding a way to stop the war than before.

  In just the last week, there had been an anti-­imperialist attack on a British embassy in France, claims of anti-­imperialists arming themselves and preparing an assault on Buckingham Palace, arrests of supposed imperial detractors, but no clear evidence or convictions. Always, there were rumors of France’s involvement with the anti-­imperialist movement, claims that the French government was financing their rebellion.

  Rumors and propaganda—­that was all she could find. Nothing concrete. Nothing factual. And nothing to tie Julian to any of it.

  Three weeks passed with zero progress, and Petra had finally run out of time. She had no substantial evidence, the quadruped prototype was nearly finished, and war was lurking on the horizon like a steadily advancing storm. All it needed was one final spark to light the conflagration.

  Her days were numbered.

  The quadruped would fail.

  Julian would find her sabotage.

  And that would be the end of Petra Wade.

  There was only one way out of it now, and though she hated the thought of admitting defeat, of running away, she could see no other way, not if she wanted to survive the aftermath her sabotage would bring.

  She had to leave the city.

  Tomorrow.

  The day of Petra’s birthday celebration dawned bright and cool, and Petra dressed with special care, wearing her sturdiest work clothes beneath layers of petticoats and skirts, a change of clothes tied around her waist and bundled at her back to act as a bustle. She covered the ensemble with one of her more modest dresses, hidden pockets sewn into the skirt. She put her few items of value there—­her mother’s pocket watch, a reticule containing what little money she had saved back, her mother’s wooden screwdriver and design journal, and the clockwork butterfly Emmerich had given her before he left for Paris. To complete the outfit, she opted to wear her work boots instead of something more fashionable, not knowing what sort of travel she had ahead of her once she skipped Milford Haven and headed east.

  Everything was in place, her one chance for escape unwittingly approved by the council for her birthday. All she had to do was slip away at the last minute, board the last train east, and not look back, not for a second. If she looked back, if she hesitated, they would find her. And she would not be trapped by Julian’s hand again. She would not give up her freedom, her life, not when she had a chance to save herself, not when she had a chance to live.

  A knock sounded at her door, and she frowned at her reflection in the mirror, seeing only how badly she had failed, how low she had come. A year ago, she had the world at her feet, a fire in her heart, and a dream worth fighting for. Now she had nothing.

  Braith knocked again. “Petra? Are you ready to go?”

  “Coming,” she said, her voice hollow.

  She checked her pockets, patting the solid weight of her reticule and the smooth surface of her pocket watch, her fingers grazing over the screwdriver and the tiny box where she kept Emmerich’s gift—­too precious to leave behind. Inhaling another deep breath, she glanced around her spartanly furnished room, bed made, desk neat. But there was nothing here for her anymore. She wondered if there ever had been.

  Leaving the room behind, she met Braith in the hallway. He was dressed up in his formal military attire, his hair combed, face clean-­shaven. She smiled at him and exchanged the usual pleasantries, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  By the end of the day, she’d leave him behind too.

  They left the University without delay. Never before had she left the shores of Chroniker City, and after today, she might never come back. This city was her home—­every street, every alley, every nook and hollow as familiar as the lines of her palms; the heavy thrum of engines beneath the streets beat with the pulse of her own heart. This city was hers. It was in her bones.

  She belonged to it.

  The thought of leaving it behind ripped her apart, but she had
no choice, not if she wanted to survive. She walked on, one step after the other, and then they were at the gates to the city, the open harbor and waiting ferry just beyond.

  Petra stopped in her tracks, the echoes of the subcity engines vibrating through the cobblestones beneath her feet, singing to her, calling her back, begging her not to leave.

  “Petra?”

  She looked up to see Braith at the open gate, his golden hair tousled by the seaward winds as he glanced back at her, and she remembered Emmerich suddenly, his dark hair, his copper eyes, the touch of his arms around her, remembering the day he left, how much it had ached to lose him, as if a part of her soul had left with him.

  This was worse.

  She breathed deeply of the city air, inhaling the rich scents of coal smoke and tangy metal, clouds of hot steam rolling lazily over the cobblestone streets like an early-­morning fog. She filled her lungs with it, with the breath of this city, holding on to it like a talisman.

  I’ll come back, she promised. A whisper of a prayer. Someday.

  And then she stepped forward, striding up to the gate without looking back. If she looked back now, she’d never leave.

  They boarded the first ferry to Milford Haven and she held on to the deck rail with shaking hands, trying not to think of the life she was leaving behind. The ferry drifted away from the pier with the chime of a bell, and then they were sailing away from Chroniker City. Only then did she dare look back at the city she’d lived in for almost eighteen years, slowly slipping toward the horizon as the ferry puttered east. Its high walls and brass towers glimmered brightly in the morning sun, birds soaring over angled rooftops and blackened smokestacks, a haze of steam and coal smoke rising steadily overhead. And then it was gone, lost behind a mist of sea spray and fog.

  She closed her eyes and sighed, breathing freely for the first time in months—­free of the Guild, free of the University, free of Julian’s long reach. She turned eastward, a weight lifting from her chest as she breathed the salty air, filling her lungs with the taste of it.