The graf stalked out onto the floor, and up to the last remaining sheet. It hung over something tall and vaguely man-shaped. Graf Gaeth bowed, then reached up and tore it off with a flourish.

Doncia heard a collective drawing of breath, and felt herself doing the same. The thing was seven feet tall, with a base like a spider-legged mining robot, and a top like a suit of armour twice as broad as a man. It was stocky, and stable, and fearsome. It had no real neck or head, but did have a fanciful, stylised sneering face in the centre, with eyes like cut crystals and teeth like arrowheads.

There was a scatter of separate claps from the guests, perhaps more from politeness or fear than appreciation.

The graf beckoned to someone out on the colonnade, who strode into the hall and up to the huge warbot. It was a soldier, suited in armour that matched the warbot in style, down to the drab grey-green colour and the repeated triangular shapes of the major features. His helmet was in his hands.

‘This is Captain Brand,’ Graf Gaeth said, ‘and he will demonstrate the advantages of this machine of war.’

Captain Brand set down the helmet, fiddled with something at his neck, and drew it out from beneath his armour. It was a dull metal disk, roughly the same size as Doncia’s pocketwatch, hanging on a chain. He disconnected it and placed it into a circular depression in the warbot’s chest.

The thing shook, coming alive like a cleaner bot when its red button was pushed. The hall was so quiet with anticipation she could hear small motors and gears in the thing whirring. The start-up actions were different from the cleaner robot; rather than sidling back and forth, it raised and lowered on its legs, and the torso rotated slowly, right around. Then the club like hands on the ends of the thick arms smacked together with a sound like a gunshot.

Doncia instinctively covered her ears with her hands, and noticed most others doing the same. That was lucky, because the warbot let out a monstrous roar, something like a lion, and something like the scraping of metal on metal.

She saw a couple of ladies among the guests faint, caught in the arms of those nearby. Their maidservants rushed from the edges of the room to fan them vigorously and to offer them water as they recovered.

The thing was still. Captain Brand stood at attention.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ said Graf Gaeth.

Everyone started to talk. Doncia wondered if it was outrage or excitement, or some of both. The graf stood with the appearance of patience, waiting for the crowd to hush. Only a few were still talking when he continued.

‘Captain Brand will now spar with the warbot, and you will see a demonstration of its battle skills.’

The captain put on his matching helmet, then took a step back and raised his right hand. The warbot did the same. The captain, in one fluid motion, brought his hand down and thrust it out in a fist punch. Again the warbot copied his movements.

The soldier sped up, executing a series of martial moves which the robot echoed flawlessly. Then he stopped, but the robot continued, and it rose on its legs till it was ten feet tall, still punching the air madly, and gave another deafening roar. Then it stopped, lowered to the ground, and was still.

Captain Brand bowed to the audience, and the robot did the same.

There were just a few claps, and then more, and then riotous applause.

Doncia didn’t clap, although she saw Piri beside her joining in enthusiastically. She remembered the puka she’d seen near the ornithopter, and imagined the warbot pounding it to death with its club fists. Everything took on a tinge of brownish yellow, but Doncia concentrated and turned it to red. She looked around and saw most were clapping, but there were some, like her, who just looked on, seeming stunned or looking furious.

Captain Brand reached up and removed the anrenn from the warbot’s chest, and it demotivated, arms dangling from its shoulders. Doncia’s hands were inside her apron, clutching her pocketwatch.

Graf Gaeth raised his hands, palms out, to acknowledge and hush the applause. It took some moments.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We expect these warbots will effect a rapid closure to the war at the mines—a swift end to the suffering, and a return to prosperity for Clee.’

Several people cheered and applauded again. Doncia was pleased when Captain Brand threw the white sheet back over the robot.

Mr Delgarde came back out and held out the envelope.

‘And now is the moment you’ve all been anticipating. Who will it be? Will it be Mr Arnold’s electric bell-pull?’

There was one cry of ‘YES!’ presumably from Mr Arnold, but it was quickly drowned out by a chorus of ‘NO!’

‘Will it be Otis’s Racing Car?’

Doncia really liked the racing car, so she gave a cheer along with everyone else who did.

‘It is really exciting,’ Mr Delgarde admitted, ‘but will it really change Clee? What about the young Marquis’s Flying Horse?’

Doncia cheered again. The uproar was the loudest of the evening so far. People seemed to really love the idea of the little aircraft, and she beamed with pride for having helped it become a reality. She imagined them zooming through the sky. The air in the hall took on a happy blue-green tint.

‘A few rich people would benefit from them, indeed,’ Mr Delgarde said, ‘and I’m sure I could turn a tidy profit selling them, but think about Graf Gaeth’s warbot, if we can bring a swift end to the war at Braxa, then the mothers of Clee can stop sending their sons to war. The drain on our resources will end, and a new time of prosperity will arrive. We will squash the puka claim on our land and resources, and will no longer need to fear their most evil of weapons—the touch.’

Doncia had never heard anyone claim that the touch was caused by the puka. Mr Delgarde said it as if everyone already knew. People were silent. Did that mean the puka were to blame for her father’s madness and disappearance? What proof did Mr Delgarde have? Would everyone believe him just because he said so, because he was rich and powerful?

She turned to Piri, and touched her arm to get her attention. Piri flinched as if she was burned.

‘Sorry,’ Doncia said, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘It’s all right,’ Piri said, and smiled her brilliant smile.

‘Can that be true?’ Doncia asked. ‘Can the puka really cause people to be touched?’

Piri shrugged, ‘I never heard anyone say so before, but it makes sense—how else would it happen? They must be causing it. Maybe they are sending the demons too, maybe the demon we saw was sent by the puka to spread the touch!’

Doncia wasn’t convinced. ‘What about the beautiful boy? I don’t think he was sent by puka to attack us.’

‘I don’t trust him,’ Piri said.

Mr Delgarde continued: ‘Imagine the change the warbot will bring to Clee. It will end the war, and introduce a time of new prosperity!’

Massive applause and cheering made Doncia cower. Piri was cheering. So was Isolde. She scanned for other familiar faces. There were Otis, Maynard, and Carmen, but none of them were cheering.

Mr Delgarde tore open the envelope and read the name.

‘The winner of the inaugural Graf Gaeth von Clee invention competition is—Graf Gaeth von Clee himself, and his invention, the Warbot!’ He waited for the applause to subside. ‘And I call on Mr Paige to present the trophy.’

Mr Paige curved over his cane, but if he could have straightened he would have been taller than everyone. His face had a blotchy ancient pallor. The crowd was patient as he placed down his cane with a click, brought forward one long leg and then the other, paused for a moment, and then repeated the movements over and over until he was finally out on the floor with Mr Delgarde.

‘Friends,’ he said.

Everyone clapped and there were a few cheers, but they quickly quietened so they could hear his quiet, raspy voice.

‘I want to personally congratulate Graf Gaeth on his win. When we made this decision, Mr Delgarde, Rhan Caelis, and I, we made it because his invention was a standout in the three criteria of originality, worth, and manufacturability—especially worth—but we knew it would be controversial. Winning his own inaugural competition seems just a little bit rigged.’

He paused. There were murmurings.

‘But the graf is not one to shy away from what has to be done, and so neither did we. I assure you there was no bias. I wish we could award every competitor with the prize—all the inventions are amazing, and so are the inventors. Again I congratulate Graf Gaeth.’

There was one final item on the table covered with a white cloth. Mr Delgarde lifted the cloth to reveal a trophy topped with a gleaming stylised airship. He helped Mr Paige hold it out to the graf, who received it and bowed to a crescendo of applause. Graf Gaeth quickly held up his hand for silence.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘it is my party and I say there should be dancing.’

🔸⏱️🔸 

Mrs Quilty directed the staff to clear away the last of the dishes and scraps, and Doncia and Piri worked with the other girls, making trips back and forth to the scullery. Dugald and other men stripped, folded, and removed the invention competition tables, leaving the polished floor open and ready. The string quartet were joined in the pit by the rest of the orchestra, and they tuned up with competing sounds.

She was returning along the colonnade to collect silverware from a final table. The orchestra was loud and furious, but Doncia didn’t know enough about music to recognise the tune. She stepped across the threshold and stopped, her way barred by a wall of moving bodies. Half of the guests were on the floor, spinning and parading in a progressive dance. She was glad she had her place as a maid, so she wouldn’t be expected to join in the terrifying, dizzying spectacle.

She wove her way around the edges to the guest tables. Only the wine glasses were to stay. Behind her everyone was clapping. She loaded her apron pocket up with all the silver forks and spoons, then managed to grasp all the knives in her hands. She turned to head back.

The music changed to a waltz. Most dancers headed back to their tables, and Doncia muttered repeated apologies as she dodged them with her full load of silverware.

The clutter of people cleared, leaving Doncia a clear path and clear view of the dance floor. Only a few couples remained. Among them were Maynard and Carmen.

Carmen had a gloved arm around Maynard’s shoulder, and Maynard had a hand in the small of her silk-clad back. They were pressed close. Their other hands were held out, grasped. The coils of Carmen’s curls rested on his black velvet jacket, and she appeared to be whispering into his ear. The walls behind the dancers turned as green as algae in a fish pond.

She forced her gaze away, out to the colonnade, and her focus back to her work. Flakes of algae peeled from the walls and snowed to the floor, swirling around the dancers. She wasn’t jealous, she told herself, she was a maid, not a courtier, and dancing did not interest her. But it wasn’t Carmen’s dancing she was jealous of, it was who she was dancing with, and that scared her. The whole night was starting to scare her. She wanted to feel for the safety of her pocketwatch, but it was in her pocket beneath the forks and spoons, and her hands were full of knives.

Which might be fun to throw.

Piri stepped into her field of view.

‘You all right?’ she asked.

Doncia let out her breath, realising it had been warming in her lungs far too long. She tried to smile.

‘Sort of.’

‘Me too,’ said Piri. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘What about Mrs Quilty?’

‘The work is over. Only the butler and the wine waitresses are still at it. The scullery kids can handle the rest. Unless you fancy scrubbing muck.’

‘We should check with Isolde,’ Doncia said.

Piri pointed Isolde out with her eyes and expression. She was chatting with a guest’s footman, and her eyes seemed, if possible, even bigger and rounder than usual in her skull-face. She had a wine glass in her hand.

Doncia had never stayed away from home at night. Her mother had left hours ago. She was glad Piri was with her.

‘There is something I want to show you,’ Piri said. ‘Come on, quick, dump those knives.’

Doncia nodded, and followed Piri out onto the colonnade and along to the kitchen. The way was clear; Mrs Quilty was not to be seen, so Doncia dashed in and dropped off the unused knives, and emptied her apron pocket—checking her pocketwatch was safe. She squeezed it for a moment.

Piri led her back along the colonnade past the Great Reception Hall, where the dances were continuing, and through a side door into the Hall of Art. The graf’s ancestors and landscapes of gory battles stared balefully.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Up into Countess Sabra’s apartments.’

Doncia stopped, remembering the dark corridor where the robot duster had seemed to be snooping.

‘Don’t worry,’ Piri said. ‘Sabra is at the ball still, I checked. The silly old thing is sipping hard liquor, she won’t trouble us. There’s nobody up there, but you absolutely must see her room; there is something in it. Something new.’

Doncia didn’t want to be caught snooping.

‘What something?’

‘Doncia!’ Piri was exasperated.

‘All right,’ Doncia said, and breathed out, and in deeply.

Piri made a wide-eyed expression of joy, and sped off, making Doncia almost run to keep up. It felt like the old days, when they would snoop about the back ways of Clee after school. She almost laughed.