The Rebels of Gold

  “It’ll do,” she mumbled. It wasn’t much by way of fortification or construction. But, for now, it could house the pieces of their ailing world. It could hold the Vicar Tribunal on ceremony alone, if nothing else.

  Glass cracked and snapped under footsteps.

  Florence turned. Her pistol was drawn and pointed at the source of the sound before she could blink.

  A woman emerged from the shadows. Her hair was loose, flowing like moonbeams down her back and around her face. The pristine shade reminded Florence of Ari, but this woman’s skin was a deeper hue, a more shadowed slate, not unlike Florence’s own flesh. She wore a smart bronze-colored coat with gigot sleeves, offset by a stripe of steel blue tied in a bow around her bicep. The composition brought out the powder blue stitching of her dress.

  “I am not your enemy.”

  Florence uncurled her fingers from the pistol grip, easing off the trigger, and returned it to its holster. “So it would seem. You’re not Dragon.” Florence looked over the stranger, and the contrast of soft curves and delicate fabrics that seemed to protest against the gritty world in which they existed. “Who are you?”

  The woman brought a finger up to the filled tattoo on her cheek. “Shannra, the Revo.”

  “Florence, the Revo.”

  “I know who you are.” Shannra crossed the distance between them with deliberate steps. “All of Loom knows who you are.”

  “Do they?” Florence couldn’t stop her fingers from twitching toward the gun. The last time she’d been out of hiding as a named entity in the world was the night she killed the Vicar Alchemist. It would make sense if they were hunting her. Though she had heard no word of a manhunt while she was in Ter.2.3, and vicarcide would have prompted both—rumor and hunt.

  “Of course. The woman who inspired the first Vicar Tribunal in years, who sparks rebellion like wildfire, would be known across the world.”

  “The Dragons did the work for me in sparking a rebellion,” Florence said warily. It was true. Uprising was an easy sell when the world was kindling to burn at the hands of their oppressors.

  “Perhaps, but you directed it.” Shannra played with a particularly large shard of glass, sliding it with the toe of her boot. “You organized us.”

  “I’ve done nothing yet.” There were many more steps for Florence to take, and even if she took them, she could well be marching the world she loved to its death.

  Shannra just hummed, giving a wide sweep of her arms and motioning to the room around them. There was a delicate deadliness to her, Florence decided quickly, and secrets sewn between the powder blue stitching of her skirts.

  “Why are you here, Shannra?” The girl had a filled Revo tattoo on her cheek. No doubt she was younger than Florence, and already achieved Journeymen.

  “I’m here to see the world die, and begin anew.”

  “Cryptic.” Florence put her hands in her pockets in an effort to seem less intimidating. It was a meaningless gesture; even with palms stuffed against her thighs, she could still outdraw almost anyone. Of that she was confident. She had to be, or she would hesitate when the moment mattered most.

  Shannra laughed, a sound like the crescendo of a chorus. “Fair, fair . . . Then I’m here to help give you what you need.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The Philosopher’s Box.”

  Her heart stilled. The magic in her blood pushed inward, as if to guard her immediate, instinctive response of hope. Hope was dangerous. And yet, Florence had positioned herself as the harbinger of it, because it made the people around her so much more effective. Hope was indeed a danger—but it was also excellent leverage.

  “What do you know of Arianna?” Florence asked finally. Her hands were still conveniently close to her guns and, depending on what this beautiful Revolver said to her, she could easily reach for them.

  Shannra twirled a strand of hair around her fingers with a coy smile, knowing exactly where Florence’s mind had gone. One look told Florence that she knew too much. More than anyone should.

  “King Louie sends his regards.”

  Florence reached for her pistol without a second thought.

  ARIANNA

  Damn the man for having the foresight to tie her down, because if he hadn’t, she would’ve spent her dying breath savoring the feeling of his skull disintegrating against her fingers as she clawed out his eyes.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, wishing she hadn’t taken so long to voice her denial. Arianna curled and uncurled her fingers, moving something, anything, trying to get blood pumping to her brain at any cost. Louie made almost the same motion before he spoke.

  “Oh, White Wraith, don’t you think we have a better rapport than that? Since when have you known me to seek something I cannot easily attain?”

  “I don’t think you ever actually attain anything. As I recall, I did most—all—of the work on every heist.” Arianna added a scoff in an attempt to get a rise out of the man. If she could throw him off his emotional center, she could regain some vantage.

  “All the more poetic, then. As it seems this time will be no different.” Louie shifted stiffly, folding his skeletal hands together, seeming utterly unbothered.

  “I can’t give you something I don’t know how to create.” If changing the topic didn’t work, she’d try denial next. She’d try everything until something stuck, until her mind was solid enough again to think clearly.

  “There was a time when I might have believed you.” Louie stood slowly. Arianna narrowed her eyes at his deliberate, yet unsteady, motions. She expected the King of Mercury Town to have a little more . . . grace?

  He reached for a holster on his hip and drew a tiny one-shot pistol barely larger than his hand. It was the sort of gun Arianna imagined Florence laughing at, if she ever saw it. The man pointed the weapon at her shoulder.

  Arianna narrowed her eyes down at him. “You sure you can handle that? Seems like you’re having trouble.”

  “Point blank shot at a tied-down target? I’ll take my chances.” Louie tightened his grip on his gun. “Question is, do you want to? I don’t have any interest in shooting you, really. We had such a good stretch as business partners, and I’d much rather not poison the waters with a gunshot to prove a point.”

  Her scowl was so deep it hurt. She knew exactly what he was doing. Proof of her being the Perfect Chimera pumped through her veins. One shot wouldn’t kill her. Bloody cogs, against all the other pain, it likely wouldn’t even register. But there would be no denying after that.

  “How did you find out?” Arianna asked. She instantly loathed the smug look on his face.

  “You have your Florence to thank for that.” Louie made a show of re-holstering his gun, as if he was doing her some grand favor. “After all, she was the one who let the world know that you, Arianna, the Master Rivet, pupil to the renowned Oliver, and the woman who supposedly perished alongside the Council of Five in the last rebellion, can make the Philosopher’s Box.”

  “You know your history.” Her voice had gone soft. But unlike the delicacy forced on her when she first awoke, this was a deadly sort of quiet that she found suited her much better.

  “When I found you, bleeding gold, dressed in white . . . it was all too much of a coincidence to write away.”

  “And I confirmed my identity when I woke.”

  “Now, don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  “Placate me again, old man, and—”

  “No need for name-calling.” Louie’s chuckle devolved into a wheeze. “It makes things much more efficient like this. You know the situation; no need for us to play coy. So, which option—”

  “You said Mercury Town was a hole.” Her brain was beginning to work again, and she wasn’t going to let him get away with spewing nonsense. The twitch of Louie’s lips was the only thing that betrayed his annoyance at her interruption, but it was more than enough to satisfy her.

  “The Revolvers saw to that.” He settled back
into his chair. “How much does Nova really know?”

  “Assume I know nothing.”

  “Seems an easy assumption.” It was now her turn to prevent her lips from twitching in annoyance. “The Dragon King ordered the guilds destroyed.”

  “Destroyed,” she repeated involuntarily, as though it would make more sense if she said it again herself, slowly. It didn’t.

  “Destroyed.” He echoed her horror in what was notably the first time they’d agreed on something. “For our insolence. The Harvesters were the first and they were hit the hardest. From what I hear, most of the masters were at the guild for a vote when the King’s Riders dropped the bombs. The Alchemists were next. They lost their hall and at least a third of their members.

  “The Revolvers . . .” Louie paused, as if offering a moment of silence to the noble fools of the weaponry guild. “They’d fought it from the start.”

  “They sought to protect Loom from their own mechanizations,” she murmured.

  “They quickly realized there weren’t many options, and less time,” Louie continued.

  “They killed themselves.”

  “In a blaze of glory. It was an explosion befitting a funeral for the Vicar Revolver himself.”

  “The Ravens? Rivets?” It was terrible news atop terrible news. Still, she wanted to know the fate of her guild.

  “Ravens were spared, thanks to the Revolver’s efforts. The Rivets were hit, but the Riders didn’t have the same firepower to raze them. Bent but not broken, from what I hear.”

  Ari took a moment just to breathe. The Rivets guild, in all its gorgeous mechanical glory, still ticked along. “And Florence?”

  “Ah, yes, Loom’s champion.”

  Arianna tried to keep her face passive—just the facts. But judging by Louie’s reaction as he spoke, she failed. At last, she acquiesced; her hand had been shown for what it was. “She’s alive then?”

  “She thrives.” He paused, clearly for dramatic effect. “So says my confidant.”

  “Confidant?” Arianna asked cautiously, though she didn’t know why. She already knew what game Louie was playing at. He wanted the box and proximity to power; he wanted her to play along. Putting a loaded gun right next to Florence was the frustratingly perfect move.

  “I sent a good friend of mine to her, just to help see things set up properly on Ter.0. After all, Florence is the one who got the Vicar Harvester to call the Tribunal.”

  “There’s to be another Vicar Tribunal?”

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Louie massaged his knees and Arianna wondered if they ailed the man. She could only speculate about his age . . . but he must be well into his forties, practically ancient for a Fenthri. “Children who have never even stepped foot on Ter.0 will be caucusing there for the first time to determine the fate of the world. Reminds you of the old days, doesn’t it?”

  “Take me to her, to Florence.”

  “I don’t think you’re in much of a position to make demands, Arianna.”

  “You were willing to make a deal before.” She had to speak his language, stick to safe territory, stick to business.

  “Give me access to the schematics for the Philosopher’s Box and I will take you anywhere in this wide world you want to go. Even back up to Nova.”

  “Florence,” she repeated firmly.

  “The box?”

  He was relentless. And even though Arianna knew the answer, she asked the question anyway. “Why do you want it?”

  “Reasons that I think should be obvious.”

  And they were.

  There was a time when he who owned the gold owned the power. But such a time was ending. Now, Loom and Nova stood on a new precipice, an age where power came from those who could manufacture weapons in the shape of people that bled gold. There was abject disgust at the notion that she would help usher in such an age.

  But it was an age Loom had been headed toward since the first Chimera. If it hadn’t been her, it would’ve been someone else.

  “If I agree, you’ll take me to her?”

  “You have my word.” Louie put his hand over his vested heart. “It’s bad for business if I go back on my deals. Plus, we both have far, far more to gain by being friends.”

  “If I agree, you’ll do as I say?”

  “Within reason.”

  She settled back against the harvesting table, looking at him with narrowed eyes. She had to get something out of this, for the time being. There was no possible way she’d give Louie unrestricted access to the Philosopher’s Box. For as long as she could manage, she’d regulate who knew what.

  “On Nova, there is a flower for the Lord of Luck. This flower has four petals . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment and Arianna thought back to her night with Cvareh on the island. She wanted to feel the same anger she felt toward him previously, but it was already weakening into an uncomfortable question: What are we? “Be my Lord of Luck here on Loom and grant me four wishes. Four things, whatever I design to help the rebellion, to help Loom, in the coming months. And when we are finished, you will have your schematics.”

  “I’m not a Dragon.” Louie chuckled. “I think what you seek is a boon.”

  “I actually already have one of those. So I suppose you could call me a collector of sorts . . .” Arianna spread her lips and barred her teeth like a ravenous Dragon. “Plus, a boon is only one wish. I want four of you.”

  “You ask too much.” He ran his fingers over his lips. Arianna could practically hear him thinking through the admission of her holding a boon.

  “You ask for the power to change the world—to make you richer than ever before, and ten times as formidable. I ask you to honor four favors.” She managed to shrug against the tight restraints. “Seems more than fair.”

  Louie stood, pulling his chair away from the door. “Very well, Arianna, you have your deal.” He reached for the door latch, clicking it open. “We shall leave at dawn for Ter.0, and your Florence.”

  CVAREH

  The skies above the floating islands of Nova were always peaceful. Even when his heart was heaviest and his mind in turmoil, the unhindered wind and free cries of the wild boco traversing its currents evoked a sort of calm. There wasn’t another flyer anywhere around him, leaving the Xin’Ryu mostly to his thoughts.

  Dawn began to seep between the stars—a melancholy hue that marked the end of Lord Xin’s hour and the start of Lord Rok’s.

  Rok.

  The mere thought had Cvareh looking over his shoulder. Far in the distance, hazy with the wisps of the God’s Line, was the ghostly silhouette of the Rok Estate. He squinted against the darkness, pushing magic into his eyes and piercing the shadows, but another boco was nowhere to be seen.

  He had split from his sister, Petra, to allow her to make a distraction while he went in search of Arianna. What sort of distraction Petra had in mind, he couldn’t fathom, and now he wished he’d had an idea. Cvareh looked forward again.

  His sister would be waiting for him back at the Xin Manor.

  The isle of Lysip grew before him. It was a familiar shape. Cvareh knew every cut of the mountains and every switchback that wandered through its rolling jade hills, down into the great city of Napole at the far end.

  But there were no festivities in Napole, no flame dancers on rooftops or revelers pouring wine until the bottles ran dry. As Cvareh rode his boco, Saran, as their shadows cut across the city below him, he was staggered by the quiet. This was a city in mourning, a place where men and women had lost family, loved ones, to the tyrant known upon their wide world as Yveun’Dono.

  Cvareh tightened his grip on his boco’s reigns. There was no bottom to the depths of Rok depravity, and in that endless pit was where they had found the will to poison the wine and bring an abrupt, dishonorable end to the Xin and the Crimson Court. While none could pin the act on House Rok, it was known. Cvareh could almost feel the truth being whispered behind tightened shutters and on the shuddering rasps of mourning lovers.

/>   Roks may have weakened them, but in the same act, had provided House Xin with all the rationale and motivation ever required to stage a rebellion.

  And that rebellion hinged on one person—a Chimera who smelled of honeysuckle and tasted of dreams. There were competing motivations in him. The first was admonishment that he had ever let Arianna return to Loom. He had let go the singular person who could provide Xin an army that could stand against the might of Rok.

  But had he not released her, she would’ve never fought for—alongside—them. The other voice in his mind reassured him of the fact, just as it reassured him that for all her pain and anger, and for all that she put a world between them, her heart still spared a beat for him.

  Cvareh swallowed the debate and ignored the aftertaste, focusing on his flight path. The Xin Manor was beginning to peek around the mountains ahead. Before he could even contemplate Arianna’s mind and motives and if she would ultimately support House Xin, he had to think first about how to stave off Petra’s ire for letting their inventor return to Loom unhindered.

  At least, Cvareh hoped she had returned to Loom unhindered. He’d seen a glider rise from the Rok Manor on his way back to his boco. Then a second, not long after. But anything else . . . that was in the hands of the Lord of Luck Cvareh had been born under.

  The shroud of silence hung heavy even at the Xin Manor. It was early yet, and no servants arrived at his usual landing balcony to attend to Saran.

  “You know your way to the stables, right?” Cvareh patted the beast’s feathery neck before dismounting.

  It cooed softly, tilting its head in reply.

  “If you want to stay here, you’re welcome to,” Cvareh added. Cvareh had always known that Raku, Petra’s trusty mount, was the smartest of their birds.

  His chambers had been tidied. He’d left them a sopping mess, only returning to ransack his clothes to find acceptable garb for his excursion. Those articles now smelled of Rok, and Cvareh was prompt to strip them off and cast them over the balcony rail. He paused, watching the trousers and arm adornments be swallowed up by the God’s Line, and hoped they didn’t fall on some poor unsuspecting Fenthri’s head. Knowing his luck, they would, and that Fenthri would be Arianna.