The Guild Conspiracy

 

DEDICATION

To all the girls who were told they couldn't.

To the girls who tried and failed.

To the girls who keep fighting anyway.

 

EPIGRAPH

It is our aim that, in partnership with the Guild, the University becomes a central edifice of technological learning and progress, advancing the world into a new age through the fostering and education of the next generation of engineers. This has long been my dream, and it is by the accomplishment of my granddaughter, Adelaide, and the hard work of many businessmen and engineers that today, we open our doors to all who share this dream.

Aedificium futurum.

Together, we will build the future.

—­
L
ORD
G
UMARICH
C
HRONIKER, 1861

 

CONTENTS

 

CHAPTER 1

P
etra paced outside the Guild council chambers, wringing her hands as she counted each minute of the deliberation. Her dream of becoming a Guild engineer was in reach, so close she could almost feel it. Should the council choose to accept her application, a certified position within the Guild would give her the protection she so desperately needed. But if the council chose to reject her again . . .

She was running out of options.

The door to the council chambers creaked open, and the clerk stepped into the hall. “They are ready for you, Miss Wade.”

She stopped her pacing and straightened. Five times, she had stood before these doors, waiting to hear the council's decision, hoping for their approval. Five times, she had failed.

This time would be different. It had to be.

Swallowing hard against the knot in her throat, she raised her chin and followed the clerk into the council chambers—­hopefully for the last time.

The council members' bench stood at one end of the room, a stately half-­circle of dark wood, and behind it, all fifteen gears of the Guild seal ticked in an elaborate clockwork dance.

To the side of the council bench stood a party of military officers, redcoats sent to the Guild by Her Imperial Majesty to oversee the progression of technology for the war effort. Three of them stood watch today, and Petra eyed them as she entered, their red uniforms a blaze of color in the dark chambers. The superior officer, a broad man with a thick, graying mustache and severe brow, had attended all of her proposals so far, his expression growing more dissatisfied with each rejected attempt.

Today, he was accompanied by two junior officers, and as she entered the room, the soldier to his right glanced up. For a brief moment, their eyes met, locked together in silent judgement. He looked to be about her age, maybe older, freckled and lean, with a noticeable lack of contempt or suspicion in his shrewd gaze. A refreshing change. The rest of the soldiers had perfected expressing their distaste of her with a sneer. But not him.

She turned her attention back to the council and approached the bench. She could feel the weight of the council's gaze upon her, but none more so than the dark copper eyes of Julian Goss. Sitting to the right of the vice-­chancellor, he glowered at her from his high seat, his features lit in sharp relief by the harsh light of the dark hall. Every line in his face was taut, his jaw clenched tight, bristling with impatience at her continued disobedience, her determined rebellion.

She stood tall under his scrutiny.

Let him be angry. Let him see she would not bend.

Finally, Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon sat forward in his chair, the wood and leather creaking beneath the strain of his weight. For a quiet moment, he regarded her over the rims of his round glasses, his expression unreadable. Then he drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat, directing his gaze to the collected council members. “On the subject of Miss Wade's proposal to the Guild . . .” he began, his voice slow and gravelly, “the council has come to a decision.”

Petra crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt. If the council voted to accept her application, she would be free of Julian's demands, free of his threats, free to pursue her own interests as a Guild engineer.

But if not . . .

For six months, she had stalled, rebelling against Julian's requests for a war machine. For six months, she had refused to comply, to cooperate, doing whatever she could to delay the war Julian was so determined to start, but it had all come to nothing. Project after project rejected, followed by threats upon threats, and she had persisted. But now she was out of ideas, out of time. She had exhausted all of her resources, and if she failed now . . . she had nothing left to fight with.

“After much consideration,” the vice-­chancellor continued, “the Guild council regrets to inform Miss Wade that her proposal has been rejected by a majority vote. I am sorry,” he said more gently, shutting her application folder. “Your application is denied.”

Petra clenched her jaw, a flood of anger and disappointment warring in her chest. She refused to accept defeat, not after all the work she had done to get here, not when so much hinged on this decision.

She would not fail, not now.

“Did you even read the proposal?” she demanded, her voice breaking. “This project would vastly improve the city's existing energy output.” She marched forward and snatched her notes from the bench, turning to the first page of schematics. “If we implemented these designs, the efficiency of the city's subcity engines would increase threefold with the barest minimum of adjustments. The math is here in my notes,” she said, striking the back of her hand against the pages. “I've done the research and the calculations and—­”

“The decision is made, Miss Wade,” said Mr. Goss, rising from his chair. “Our aims for the Guild have a particular focus,” he said, gesturing to the military officers to the side of the council bench. “It is not prudent for the council to accept projects that do not benefit our contract with Her Imperial Majesty's Royal Forces. By bringing forth this
civic
proposal, you have wasted our time.”

Petra held Julian's glare, speaking her next words through gritted teeth. “I was under the impression that a student may bring forth
any
proposal of merit to the city, University, or Guild. Rejecting my project outright because of some misguided war—­”

“The contract for your studentship stipulates that you agree to provide war technology for the Royal Forces, with priority to any other potential projects. By neglecting your duty—­”

“Duty?” she countered. “My duty is to the Guild and the University,
not
the Royal Forces. I refuse to let my studentship be dictated—­”

“Your duty is to the
Empire
, Miss Wade,” said Julian. “And the Empire requires war technology.”

She started to respond, but Lyndon cut her off.

“It is not a matter of your project not meeting Guild standards, or a question of your commitment to the Guild and University, Petra,” he said gently, directing her attention away from Julian. “While I understand your hesitation to apply your talents to developing war technology, Mr. Goss is correct: we are not currently accepting civic projects for consideration. All government funding for Guild projects has been diverted to technological advancements for the Royal Forces. All students requesting entry into the Guild have been informed of this—­including you.”

“But—­”

The vice-­chancellor raised his hand with a glare of warning. “We will retain your application and your proposal for optimizing the city's power efficiency until a later date, when an imminent conflict with France and the anti-­imperialists is no longer a concern. Then, if you decide to reapply, we will review your proposal and reconsider your application to the Guild.” There was a snort of suppressed laughter from one of the other councilors, but Lyndon ignored him. “That is all we can do at this time.”

“That's it?”

“I'm afraid so,” he said. “You are dismissed.”

Petra clenched her hands into fists and whirled away from Lyndon and the rest of the council with a growl, the hair at the nape of her neck bristling as she stalked from the chambers and into the hallway. The clerk shut the heavy doors behind her, leaving her in cold, empty silence.

She exhaled sharply, forcing all of her anger out in a single breath. She should have expected rejection. But she had dared to hope that maybe—­just maybe—­this time would be different. But the Guild's obsession was with war machines, not more efficient power distribution.

As much as she had hoped to defy Julian Goss a moment longer, weasel her way into the Guild under his nose and earn herself the protection of an official position, she feared his patience was wearing thin.

With the pressures of the Royal Forces at Julian's back, it was only a matter of time before she no longer had the ability to defy him. She knew the consequences of her actions. All she had ever hoped to do was delay the war long enough for Lyndon or Emmerich to find a way to stop it, but they had yet to come up with a plan, and she was running out of time.

Behind her, the council chamber doors opened again, and she turned to see Julian stride into the hall. He reminded her so much of Emmerich—­dark hair, thick eyebrows, sharp jaw—­but when she looked at him, all she could think of was everything she had lost, everything
he
had taken from her.

Emmerich was gone, working in Paris at the newly founded Continental Edison Company, unable to send a letter or telegram without his father intercepting it. Any words they exchanged were monitored, censored, questioned. By removing Emmerich, Julian had taken away the one person who had ever truly understood her, the one person she could trust. And here she remained, a slave to Julian's schemes, unable to expose his plans for the Guild, unable to stop his plans for war. She was nothing but a pawn, a game piece in his plot to create a new world.

“What do you want?” she spat.

Mr. Goss arched an eyebrow. “You would do well to show a little respect, Miss Wade,” he said, his usual honeyed voice carrying a hint of impatience. He gestured down the hall, away from the council chamber. “A quick word, if you please.”

She didn't move. “I know what you're going to say. You're asking me to start a war.”

“No,” he said, forcibly taking her arm and leading her away from the council chambers. She tried to resist, but his fingers tightened like a vice. “I am
asking
you to keep your word. We had an agreement.”

He stopped at the end of the hall, far from the council chambers, and glared at her, his grip still tight on her arm. “I grow tired of this game of yours. This war will happen, and it will go far better for you if you cooperate.”

Petra raised her chin. “I will not.”

“You will,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I have been patient with you, Miss Wade. I have allowed you to study here, to inconvenience the council with your banal proposals and Guild applications. I have even allowed you to continue communications with my son . . . but my generosity is now at an end.”

He released her arm and gathered to his full height. “Understand me, Miss Wade. If your next project is not in line with our agreement, not only will I revoke your studentship and prevent further association with my son, I will repeal the council's pardon of your crimes and deliver you to the Royal Forces as a traitor and a spy. You will be conscripted into the military as a prisoner of war, forced to build my war machines—­or else hang for your crimes.”

She swallowed, her mouth dry. “You can't.”

“I can, and I will.” Footsteps sounded down the hall, and Julian leaned close. “You
will
build a war machine for me. By choice or by force, I will have what I want. Make no mistake.”

One of the redcoats from the council meeting rounded the corner and spotted them. “Pardon the interruption, Minister,” he said crisply, “but you are needed back in the council chambers.”

Julian glared at the junior officer. “Very well. Inform them that I will return shortly.”

But the soldier made no motion to leave. “The vice-­chancellor is expecting you now, sir.”

“Well, as you can see, I am presently occupied,” he said sharply. “The vice-­chancellor can wait. I have important matters to discuss with Miss Wade, and I require a measure of privacy. Now go.”

The soldier hesitated, his gaze lingering a moment on Petra. “Of course, sir,” he said with a stiff bow. Then he strode away.

Julian waited until the officer was well out of earshot before turning back to Petra. “I leave the decision to you, Miss Wade,” he said. “You know the consequences should you refuse my request. However, if you cooperate, I give you my word that I will not question your studentship, I will continue to allow your relations with my son, and I will even offer you my recommendation for Guild placement. Help me, and I will help you. Do you understand?”

Petra glared at him. “Yes, sir,” she hissed.

“Good,” he said, his charismatic smile brightening his face with the same easy handsomeness as his son. “Then I expect your next proposal will be most satisfactory. Good day, Miss Wade.” With that, he turned on his heel and left.

His footsteps faded into silence, and Petra pressed against the wall with a shaky sigh, hands trembling. Damn him! Damn the Guild for giving him such power over her. He could do it. He could take away her freedoms and hand her over to the Royal Forces with a single order. He would, if given the chance.

If she defied him again, he would end her.

Slow footsteps approached, and Petra started, but it was only the Royal Forces officer again, the same soldier who had caught her eye in the council chambers.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice kinder than she expected.

“I'm fine,” she said automatically.

He looked less like a stoic, bland-­faced soldier now, no longer wearing his military cap. His hair was short, shaved at the sides with a shock of golden-­brown waves at the top, his narrow jawline roughened by the beginnings of a scruffy beard. His eyes were an almost colorless blue, like a slate gray sky.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “The minister seemed angry with you.”

A bitter laugh escaped her throat, Julian's threats still fresh in her mind.

Forced conscription.

That was her punishment for her disobedience if she defied Julian again. She had delayed and resisted as long as she could, had pushed his patience to the brink, and now her choice was made for her—­choose to build his war machine or lose everything she had left.

“For what it's worth, I thought your project had merit,” he said. “Assuming you could achieve what you proposed.”