31. Florence

Nora and Derek were set up across the hall from her. Florence heard them entering in a haze, but sleep’s hold was too strong on her to even cast off her covers. She would ask them in the morning how their meeting with the Vicar had gone.

But when morning came, a knock awoke her, and she found neither was waiting.

Powell stood on the other side of the door in the same, simple, pocketed worker’s pants he’d worn the whole journey. Well, judging from the lack of smell and stain they weren’t the exact same trousers. They were belted, and a loose cotton shirt was tucked into them, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

“I woke you.” His observation seemed mildly apologetic.

“I might have slept for the next two days if you hadn’t.” She rubbed her eyes with a yawn. He had been right, there was no substitute for sleeping in a proper bed.

“Then I’m glad I woke you, seeing as I don’t know when you’re leaving and there’s much I’d like to show you before then.”

“Well, I don’t seem to have much else to do.” It was nice to feel welcomed by someone, to have them engaged in her wellbeing. Nora, Derek, and the rest of the Alchemists’ Guild were poor substitutes in that regard. Since Ari left, Florence had no one to look after her other than herself. “Are you sure you have the time?”

“I will until I won’t. I’m at the leisure of the guild’s Masters and Vicar. Whenever they reach their decision, I’ll find out if I have something to do, or if I’m returning home with my mark as it is,” he explained. “Here.”

Florence accepted the bundle of clothes he offered. She’d brought her own, but they were still soiled from travel and the prospect of something clean was incredibly appealing. She wondered if he had paid that much attention to her needs or if this was standard hospitality for the Harvesters.

“You can wear what you want, but I thought after the organ halls we may head into the mines, so you might want to wear something you don’t mind potentially getting soiled or ripped.”

“These days, all my clothes can potentially get soiled.” Powell didn’t know the half of what she’d been through. The days of her pristine vests, matching top hats, and perfect stitching were gone. Her vests were wrinkled, her top hats lost or left behind while she was on the run, and the seaming at the elbows of every one of her shirts had been torn. “But, thank you. It’s nice to have something clean.”

Washed and dressed, Florence followed her new friend once more into the Harvesters’ Guild hall. Powell was indeed known, as she waited once or twice for him to have short conversations with Journeymen and Initiates. There was an easy comfort about him as he spoke and answered questions. That was what had made him easy to speak to on the train and what, effectively, had forged their unconventional relationship.

Florence had always set Ari on a pedestal in terms of what it meant to be a Master. Her breadth of wisdom. Her intense respect of knowledge. Her reverence for the halls of education that elevated guilds and classrooms from mere institutions to temples of learning.

Powell embodied these things, but there was a different sort of openness to his mannerisms. He worked to include Florence in all the conversations, despite her lack of experience in these areas. He treated knowledge as a delight, rather than a sacred right.

“Sorry for the delays.” He leaned toward her so the people they had just bid farewell wouldn’t hear.

“It’s no problem. It’s nice to be included in such a positive atmosphere.”

“You were not before?” He posed the question delicately.

A tired smile curled her lips. “The Alchemists’ Guild is… a very different place. It suits them. But there isn’t much room for a Revolver there.”

He made no comment on her reference to herself as something other than her marked guild. And Florence didn’t feel the slightest bit of concern at the fact that she’d openly declared it. Powell was smart enough to figure it out—had already figured it out—and she didn’t see the point in insulting their mutual intelligence by masquerading otherwise.

“I am forced to take your word for it. I’ve never been to the Alchemists, and I cannot imagine a place where there would not be room enough for someone as eager to learn as you.” His smile was infectious. “Here we are.”

Florence wished she could bottle his words and save them for the next time she was struggling in the Alchemists’ Guild. Or with the Revolvers… Or in general.

“We worked closely with the Alchemists to develop our harvesting processes for Dragon organs.” They walked through a series of narrow halls, washing their hands along the way and passing through antechambers. “We may not know how to heal a wound, or convert a Fenthri to Chimera… But when it comes to removing the organs themselves, we’re just as skilled as any Alchemist you’ll find.”

Florence gave him an encouraging smile at the pride he so clearly felt in his guild. It was heartwarming to see. Powell led them through a door and onto a narrow, raised walk.

Florence’s smile melted off her lips.

“This is one of the viewing areas we use to see how they’re progressing. There’s only so fast you can harvest organs. They re-grow, but you have to make sure they’re healthy and strong before you remove them, or they won’t work to make Chimera and they’ll be weak reagents.”

She walked over to one of the glass windows that tilted away from the catwalk, separating her from the honeycomb of rooms below. Florence stared, barely making sense of what she was seeing, let alone Powell’s words. A chill swept through her.

Somehow she had let herself believe the organ harvesting pits would have mimicked her experience with Cvareh when she became a Chimera. She remembered the Dragon, willingly at her side, dutiful and pleased to give her his blood.

This was nothing like that.

Dragons, mostly shades of blue and green, some red, were strapped to tables, bound with steel and leather and held prone. Some screamed and thrashed. Others stared listlessly, as though their very souls had been harvested.

Gold blood seeped from open wounds, left to face the air without so much as a bandage. A man’s stomach had been carved apart, the skin still peeled back and pinned carefully to keep his innards exposed as the organ slowly grew back. They don’t even want to have to cut back into him again, Florence realized. The Harvesters couldn’t be bothered to repeat their incisions, so they let him heal while vivisected, only to have the process repeated again, and again, and again.

Her palm fell on her own abdomen.

“How did they get here?” She realized she interrupted something that Powell was saying. But she hadn’t even heard him over the ringing in her ears. The hall was silent, yet somehow the screams of the countless Dragons before her were so, so very loud.

“The Dragon King supplies them.”

Florence took note of a mark on each of the Dragon’s cheeks, all the ones that weren’t red. A crown supported by a triangle like design. Was it the mark of an animal led to slaughter? What did that make them? What were the Fenthri to this Dragon King, who was willing to condemn his own to such a fate? Just so much livestock awaiting slaughter?

“How are they chosen?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” Florence tore her eyes away and in the process swayed slightly. Her head spun. “How do you not know what these men and women have done to deserve this… this level of cruelty?”

“Florence, do not think of them as creatures with emotions or will.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to both stabilize and soothe her to no avail. “They are magic farms. Think of them as organs and parts. Their bodies just help keep them fresh.”

“No.” She stepped away, shaking her head. Her mind went to Cvareh, the sometimes comically clueless Dragon whom she had given her life as a Fenthri for to see across the world. The good man who had answered the call willingly to make the blood in her veins black and give her life anew. “They are not. They are just as you or me!”

Powell arched his eyebrows. “I would not expect Dragon sympathy from someone such as you.”

“What?”

“A self-proclaimed Revolver, dedicated to tools of death and destruction. One who clearly fights against Dragon systems. Coming from the Alchemists’ Guild… it’s not a stretch to imagine why you and your friends are here. We’ve heard the rumors.”

Florence glared at him. She hated the truth that was bleeding beneath her and she hated the truth that flew from his mouth. There was nothing but contrasts now in her heart and they were all being brought to a head.

“I don’t have all the answers,” she admitted, as much to herself as to him. “But this—” Florence motioned to the rooms below her, and the carvers who continued their work upon the helpless Dragons. “This is not right. This is no better than the mining practices you told me about yesterday.”

“No, the mines when depleted will not replenish. So long as the Dragons are forced nutrition and not over-harvested, they can remain for decades—a century, even.”

That only served to spark further outrage. “Four generations’ worth of carnage forced on a single person to endure.” Florence shook her head violently, as if she could rattle the images and truths out of her ears. “No, no. This isn’t right.” She pushed past Powell for the halls behind him.

“Florence—”

“This isn’t right!” She wanted to hear no more, see no more. There was no justification. All reason and logic betrayed what sense of morals and heart she had clung to. She wanted to believe in the good in people, but what good was there in this?

Loom survived because of the Dragons, if Powell was to be believed. They curbed Loom’s wasteful practices and lessened the tax on the earth. But a new tax emerged: blood. To make the gold that powered the world while the environment recovered, Dragons paid what Florence now saw was a terrible price.

The Dragon King may have been the catalyst for the Harvesters to uncover the problem of Loom’s rampant over-production. But the solutions had damaged Loom’s culture and ways of life, and required that he give his own people over to darkness and pain.

Florence may not have a neat solution, but she knew she had settled on one thing: She didn’t see eye to eye with Ari. That much had become apparent. Ari wanted the past without question, the days of deregulation and progress burdened only by the gates of the mind. Florence knew now that she didn’t want that, not after speaking with Powell. But her teacher remained her friend and ally in both heart and principle.

The door to Derek and Nora’s room slammed as Florence stormed in without apology. The two were still slumbering, wrapped in bed. Startled awake, Florence sat herself at the foot of their bed, comfortable in both their presence and various states of undress. Her eyes only saw the Dragons, still bleeding.

“I have decided something,” she announced before either could speak. “At all costs, we must see the Dragon King dead.”