The Rebels of Gold

  Florence forced herself to sigh mentally, rather than heaving it outward in frustration. “Because we are relatively protected here. And as long as we don’t go showing our faces, or get careless, the Dragons will know where we are but not how to get to us. The Rivets’ Guild, on the other hand, is not so fortunate.”

  “We must get a message to them.” Gregory had finally caught up with her logic. “I believe Vicar Dove has a means to communicate.”

  Florence sincerely hoped so, because if they didn’t, there was a real possibility that Garre could still fall.

  ARIANNA

  Arianna didn’t know what to do with herself when nothing was going catastrophically wrong.

  The peace was nearly unnerving. Whenever it became too much for her, she retreated to Master Oliver’s quarters and tinkered with the various projects, the original intentions of which she could only guess. She had yet to figure out how to contact Florence unnoticed about the gun schematics Oliver had been working on. Her solo attempts to complete his renderings only yielded uncertain results.

  A Revolver’s insight on the mechanics of weaponry would be imperative to finishing her late master’s great work. Still, she continued to hope against hope that she would find some way to communicate with Florence privately, rather than involving all the vicars and half the remaining Revolvers.

  Arianna wiped soot off her hands from the charcoal pencil she preferred for drafting schematics. It was a pointless gesture, as she was just about to head down to the factory floor that had occupied most of her time in the past week. The factory bustled along with all the impressive noise of a fully operating manufacturing line, but any Rivet who looked upon it would know that it was anything but.

  They were grossly understaffed for the technical nature of what they were trying to produce. The tooling workshops had only completed one out of three specialized machines required. And while she had heard from Victor Willard that more Rivets were on the way, Arianna didn’t want to sit on her hands and wait.

  So, every day she went down to the factory floor to meet the other journeymen and initiates who had stayed when everyone else had departed for Ter.0.

  When she was younger, every initiate of the Rivets’ Guild was required to spend a certain amount of time on the factory floor each week. Young Rivets were taught the basics of their trade, and learned that essential quality of a tinkerer: humility. Working the floor inspired respect for how things can come together with elegant sophistication.

  But the pedagogy had been abandoned in the wake of the Dragons.

  Young men and women—children, really—with soft delicate hands, who had never seen a manufacturing line before, stood before Arianna each day at dawn. Each day, she critiqued their work from the day prior. Even though they had yet to produce a fully functional Philosopher’s Box to her specifications, she permitted the better prototypes a place of honor on the shelves along the back wall of the factory for a day or two before getting dismantled and smelted. The gesture served both as an opportunity to raise the spirits of her workers and function as a red herring for Louie. Arianna had no doubt that upon seeing all the yet-imperfect boxes lined up on the shelves the other day, Louie immediately assumed the Rivets were further along in production than they actually were.

  It was this assumption that she would use against him. For if knowledge of stockpiled Philosopher’s Boxes was to make its way to any third party, Arianna would know immediately who the false information came from. It wasn’t as though any of the initiates spoke to Louie; Arianna had gleaned great pleasure so far at seeing the haughty man on the edge of all interactions, never able to penetrate closer.

  She glanced up at the catwalk where Louie had appeared the other day. Today, like most days, it was empty. Arianna put it from her mind to focus on the floor. The boxes wouldn’t become perfect with her mind busy elsewhere.

  They worked until lunch, breaking to head to the mess hall on the floor above.

  The food wasn’t glamorous, but it was consistent, and it was what Arianna was accustomed to from her childhood.

  “It seems like you’re doing well with them.” Charles sat across from her, startling Arianna from her thoughts. He usually sat with the young Rivets.

  “With Louie?” Arianna couldn’t imagine what about her relationship with Louie looked remotely positive, let alone qualified as “doing well.” It was a sort of peaceful tolerance on the exterior, at best.

  “No, no.” Charles shook his head as if remembering for the first time in days that the skeletal man and his ragtag followers even existed. “I mean with the initiates. They’re doing well learning the line. It’s something that many were resistant to, but now they’re all taking a liking for it.”

  Arianna scoffed softly, and refrained from making a comment about how “in her day” all initiates were required to spend time on the line. Instead, she capitalized on the fact that she had someone familiar with what had evolved in the Rivets’ Guild while she was away.

  “Why is it that the initiates don’t work on the line anymore?”

  “Ah, that . . . That was a change the Dragons imposed about six years ago. They wanted most initiates focused on refining.” Charles shook his head, expressing in a single gesture that he felt much the same as Arianna on the matter.

  “Shortsighted creatures,” she muttered. The Dragons had the most use for gold, and they put high value on the difficult-to-craft resource. Converting all manpower to its creation made sense. It was, after all, nearly impossible to produce without a lot of time and manpower.

  Well, made sense if a child was the one calling the shots.

  Yveun’s face appeared in the forefront of her thoughts, and Arianna shook her head to relieve herself of the memory. The Dragon King may be formidable, and may even have had smart insights for Loom—at least regarding the Harvesters—but it seemed he would have driven the true value of the Rivets into dust if he had remained in control much longer. So, a child in only some ways, perhaps.

  A giant dais protruding from the ceiling of the cafeteria turned with an audible click that silenced the entire room. Everyone looked up at the transformed signal, interpreting it at the same time. Down the tracks not far from Garre, an engine had triggered the pressure switch. Just as Vicar Willard had promised, more Rivets were on their way.

  “Well, I suppose lunch is going to be cut short for us.” Charles stood, taking note of how little Arianna had eaten. “Have you had enough? I can always greet the newcomers with Vicar Willard alone. You are not required.”

  “I don’t need that much food.” Arianna stood as well. “There are a few benefits to being the Perfect Chimera, after all.”

  “A few? I think I could name several, and I have only known you for two weeks.”

  The train station for Garre was slightly north of the main guild hall. Steam engines were quite particular about the ground they ran on, and the soft, marshy earth beneath Garre did not do for a train station. The Rivets and Ravens compromised to create a station just beyond the guild hall proper. It was accessible via a short light rail that gently sloped downward to the station. On the way out, the small ferrying rail was powered mostly by gravity and momentum. On the way back in, when it was mostly uphill, the trains were powered by steam—or magic.

  Arianna looked with interest toward the large engine that bellowed down the winding track leading from the northern Territory. On it would be extra manpower to set up her manufacturing line, and hopefully new ways to communicate with the rebellion locked beneath the ground of Ter.4. And, in particular, one Raven-tattooed Revolver.

  They arrived just before the train did, and the three present leaders of the Rivets’ Guild stood alone on the long platform as the engine slowed to a stop. Amid the steam billowing over the platform, the shadows of men and women emerged. They all immediately headed for the light rail without hesitation. All of them were Rivets—knew where to go, what to do. Arianna scanned their cheeks for some sign of any other guilds. But there were
none.

  “We may want to address our own protection sometime soon with the other vicars,” Arianna said to Willard.

  “Weaponry is quite tight right now,” the old man replied.

  As if she didn’t already know that. “Yes, and I realize that the majority of it must be used to fortify the Underground and the majority of Loom. But there will be no Loom, should we fail to produce the Philosopher’s Box. I doubt it will take long for the Dragon King to check all the other guilds when he returns to Ter.0 and finds no one.”

  Willard stroked his chin in thought. “You do raise a fair point. I will whisper to the Vicar Raven this night; perhaps we can see some Revolvers on the next train.”

  Arianna sincerely hoped they would see a next train, period.

  A young man jumped from the engine, a filled Raven on his cheek. He looked utterly exhausted, but still determined. “Vicar Rivet.” His eyes scanned the three of them, waiting to see who responded, as though he wasn’t entirely sure who he was looking for. “I have a message.”

  “Let me see it.” Willard held out his hand.

  “It came by whisper a few days after we left Holx.” The man produced a hastily scribbled letter, depositing it in Willard’s palm. “That’s all there was.”

  “Thank you.”

  Most of the platform had cleared and, when it was apparent that the train held no more, Charles started to make his way toward the rail as well.

  “What does it say?” Arianna wasn’t sure if she wanted to know, but when the vicar’s face fell, she knew she had to ask.

  “What is it, Vicar?” Charles pressed gently, stopping.

  Willard looked up from the letter, his attention darting between his companions. Arianna knew she would not like the outcome when his eyes settled on her.

  “The Dragons have attacked Ter.4.”

  CVAREH

  His knees ached, and his feet had gone numb.

  Cvareh knelt before the statue of Lord Agendi in the Temple of Xin. The statue was a spitting image of the mischievous, happy lord; he held his silver box, outstretched, cracked halfway, but his crown of flowers was hidden under a stone veil, the edges of the petals barely protruding from beneath the sculpted fabric.

  The temple was the only quiet place he could retreat to now. The only place he could sit and think without his family’s questioning eyes, Fae’s unyielding presence, or Finnyr in general. But Cvareh’s peace was abruptly interrupted when another worshiper knelt beside him.

  “Cvareh’Ryu,” the man said with a bow of his head. Judging from the man’s sky-colored skin and lack of tattoo, he was Xin—though Cvareh didn’t recognize him. “I thought that was you. What an honor to kneel before my patron with the Xin’Ryu.”

  Cvareh did not have the heart to correct the man.

  “Simply terrible, isn’t it?”

  “What is?” Cvareh asked cautiously.

  “The flowers. I made it out there today, myself. Sure enough, it’s as they say, almost half the island gone.”

  “Flowers?” Something resembling horror dressed in the trimmings of panic threw its arms around Cvareh’s shoulders. The Flowers of Agendi were the one thing Arianna needed from him and his world. The one thing that could offer Xin the future they so desperately needed.

  “Is that not why you’re praying? So that the dying Lord may find peace?”

  “Please, explain. I have not heard this news,” Cvareh demanded quickly.

  “Oh, no? I suppose not . . . I imagine the manor is still in mourning. It was just rumors at first—that all the Flowers of Agendi had disappeared from the isle of Lysip. Sure enough, there were whispers that Gwaeru was the same. I didn’t know what to think, but Agendi is my patron. Perhaps I didn’t worship at his temple enough . . .”

  “Gone?” Cvareh tried to keep the man on track as his heart began to race. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I didn’t believe it myself either. Thought it was just gossip with a supernatural twist in the parlors at Napole. But I went out to the lord’s temple today and sure enough, half the flowers on the island were missing.”

  Cvareh jumped to his feet. His knees had turned to gelatin from kneeling for so long and his toes started prickling up to his shins, but he ignored the discomfort. The man blinked up at him, surprised by Cvareh’s sudden movement. “Your house needs you. Go to the Xin Manor, and tell Cain Xin’Kin to meet me on the isle.”

  The man pulled himself to his feet, confused but obedient. “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s enough.” For now, Cvareh added in his head.

  He was working on a plan as he went. He had been silent in the face of Arianna’s demand—holding back, waiting for her signal. It was a natural role for him, the same one Petra had carved for him. But, Arianna was not here. Petra was not here. Which meant if he didn’t act, no one would.

  Cvareh mounted Saran, who had been perched on one of the high ledges around the Temple of Xin, and took to the skies.

  The small pebble islands that floated between outposts and tethered the three main islands of Nova together whizzed under him, blurring into a line. Cvareh squinted ahead, looking against the setting sun for the island he knew well. Even among the howling wind, the buffet of wings, and his own racing thoughts, his heart reminded him that the last time he had flown to this island, Arianna’s arms were around him.

  A dark speck appeared in the distant sky. Cvareh pushed the boco harder with a short, urging shout. He wanted to be wrong. He wanted to get to the island and see that the man’s report had been nothing more than tea parlor gossip.

  His shadow crossed over the edge of the island, soaring over greenery until—

  Nothing.

  The island, once filled completely with the tall stalks of the Flowers of Agendi, was nothing more than bare earth on one side. Cvareh landed his boco on the platform that was now only halfway surrounded by foliage. He dismounted, crossing to the dirt in a few long strides.

  The cry of another bird distracted him and Cvareh turned on instinct, claws ready. But he recognized the creature, as well as its rider.

  “Raku lets you ride him?” Cvareh phrased it as a question to Cain, but the answer was obvious.

  “He does.” There was an apologetic note to Cain’s voice. “He came to me the other day and began roosting on my balcony . . .”

  “I’m glad he returned home, and I’m glad you’re the one to ride him,” Cvareh said honestly, hoping to allay the guilt Cain clearly felt over being chosen by Petra’s mount.

  “What is happening?” Cain looked around the island, the question layering in more ways than one.

  “Rok.” Cvareh scowled.

  “Why would Rok attack the Temple of the Lord of Luck? To get back at you?”

  “No, Rok isn’t quite so small-minded.” Unfortunately. “The resistance needs these flowers.”

  “The resistance? On Loom? Needs . . . flowers?”

  “There’s something about them. They’re used to make Perfect Chimera.” Arianna could’ve explained it far better than him, but the point seemed to be made well enough. “I didn’t want to move for them too early, for fear of identifying them as important. Furthermore, they’re needed fresh; if the rebellion isn’t ready, we waste this resource.”

  “Damn Rok is wasting them for us. Yveun must have discovered something during his trip below.” The parlors in Napole had been abuzz with rumors of the Dragon King descending to parlay with the Fenthri, but no rumors had mentioned flowers.

  “We have to save as many as we can.”

  “How?”

  “We have to move them, replant them somewhere on Ruana where Rok won’t find them, but they still can grow.” Cvareh was formulating plans as he spoke.

  “Do you have an idea for where?” Cain gripped Raku’s feathers and Cvareh could sense the ripple of movement about to turn into a wave of feathers.

  “No, but it seems you do.”

  “I’m going to return with help,” Cain vowed.

&n
bsp; Cvareh gave a solemn nod. “See that you do.”

  Raku took to the skies and soared higher and higher before becoming nothing more than a speck. The boco was almost as fast as a glider, and they needed that speed now.

  Cvareh dropped his eyes back to the earth.

  Divots where the flowers had been rooted nestled between ridges of upturned earth. They’d been uprooted, not trampled, not burned. Why? Why would Rok remove them? Why waste the time, when total destruction was so much more efficient?

  Cvareh tried to make sense of it. Was it possible that Arianna had negotiated with someone else? He suddenly imagined the flowers already in her possession, acquired via whisper link with some other Dragon. He couldn’t stop himself from looking to where they had made love on the stone steps of the temple before his patron and the pantheon above.

  “She wouldn’t,” he whispered, needing more than anything to believe it was true. “Saran, take to the skies.” Cvareh gave a whistle and gestured the command. The bird took off.

  Cvareh raised a hand to his ear, still staring at that spot. She had given herself to him, and he to her.

  He uttered a specific, magic word, and felt the tension spring up between them.

  “I told you not to contact me.” The snappish words were the first he’d heard of her voice in months and somehow, despite their edge, he found them lovely.

  “I know. Don’t break the link.”

  The subtle hum of magic filled his ears. There was no retort and the connection between them didn’t drop. Cvareh took a deep breath.

  “It’s important.”

  “It must be.” Her voice had already softened.

  “The Flowers of Agendi are being uprooted.”

  “What? By whom?” Her surprise reassured him that there was no auxiliary method she’d used to acquire them.

  “Who else?”

  “Rok?”

  “I think so. I’m at the temple now. I’ll wait and see who comes.” Cvareh leaned against one of the pillars at the top of the stone steps, looking over half the barren earth. “Do you know anyone who could’ve betrayed us?”