42. Florence

The room began to clear and Florence bided her time. She would not endear herself to Powell by taking this moment from him. Plus, it was the silent observation that freed her mind time enough to think.

She had come here on behalf of the Vicar Alchemist to secure the loyalty of the Harvesters. Florence glanced at Nora and Derek. Well, she had come here as an escort to those appointed to secure the Ter.1 guild’s loyalty.

But a rift was slowly growing between her and her Alchemist friends. Not one of the heart—in that respect they were as close as ever. The rift was one of purpose. Nora and Derek were still being pulled along by the mechanisms of fate and chance. Florence had seen those gears spin too many times. There were two types of people in the world: those who loaded the gun, and those who pulled the trigger.

Florence wanted to be the latter.

She didn’t want to live another moment in a world of the Dragons’ making. Certainly, there were some Dragons, like Cvareh, who were genuine and peaceful and kind. But the more interaction Florence had with the race, the more she saw that Arianna had been right all along. The Dragons were vicious, destructive creatures that had no true regard for the world. No matter what Powell said, Florence couldn’t believe their intentions matched their actions. They were compassionate only so long as it suited them, and even then, it was the Harvesters who found the solutions to the problems Loom faced.

Florence pushed away from the wall, starting for the ever-thinning center of the room. There were only a few journeymen with fully inked sickles on their cheeks, and the Masters. It would be as good a time as any.

“Congratulations, Vicar Harvester,” Florence commended sincerely.

Powell’s coal colored eyes met hers, offset by the mess of long hair that was perpetually determined to hide his right eye. He looked haggard, they all were. But the man had aged nearly to double his life in an hour. His cheek had yet to be tattooed with a Master’s circle and he was already the Vicar.

“Tell me of the rebellion.” Powell wasted no time. He knew what they were there for.

“The Alchemists are working toward a Philosopher’s Box.” Derek stepped forward. “If we have the appropriate amount of gold and organs—”

“A Philosopher’s Box?” Max snorted in amusement. “We need solutions, and the Alchemists give us dreams.”

“It is quite real, I assure you,” Derek responded faster than Florence could.

“Your guild has been claiming such since before you were born.” Theodosia stepped forward. “But we have yet to see the product. Stitching together a Chimera with that much magic without falling is impossible.”

“We have a solid lead.” Nora joined the fray, as if to prevent Derek from being outnumbered by the Harvesters.

“Leads and lies.” Max turned to the new Vicar. “Powell, we have other more pressing matters to concern ourselves with. We have to reorganize the guild. We have to rebuild Faroe. We are responsible for what remains of the Harvesters.”

Powell’s eyes never left hers. The room buzzed around them, yet Powell remained focused, searching, silently calling out to something in Florence’s soul that he may have felt all along. What within him had made him speak to her on that train? What connected them with such faith?

“I know where you can go.” The idea came to her in that moment, thinking of the fundamental essence that joined every Fenthri at the core. It was the essence that Loom so desperately needed to recover. “I know where you all can go.”

“Where?” the elder asked.

“Ter.0.”

“From the fisher’s hook onto his spear!” Theodosia threw her hands into the air in exasperation. “We have our own wasteland here. We don’t need to go to another.”

“This is our home,” Max agreed. “We won’t abandon it.”

“I’m not saying abandon it.” They didn’t understand yet. “I’m saying go to Ter.0, and meet with the other guilds.”

“You want to hold a Vicar Tribunal.” Powell was the first to realize.

“A Vicar Tribunal? There hasn’t been one in over a decade,” one of the journeymen interjected.

“Exactly.” Florence remained focused on Powell. His decision was the only one that mattered now. He was the Vicar. “The Dragons split us apart, forced us to be silent. They bred animosity between the guilds where there was none. They separated us as children, forced us to learn apart, to compete. They fostered silence with magic. Whisperers may make it faster to converse, but there is no magic that can compare to seeing another’s face, truly hearing their plight with your own ears. Anything less is separating, impersonal, dividing. It makes us think the only way we are strong is with their help.

“But Loom was strong long before the Dragons.” She addressed the elder of the group, the man who should remember best the bygone days of another time when Loom was free. “We stood together. Links in a chain. One strong, unified, force.

“We gave the Dragons technology. We gave them gold. And, yes, they have given us some insight,” she begrudgingly admitted, thinking about Harvesting practices. “But that does not make them our saviors. They did not find the solution; they merely identified the problem. We are our own saviors and we must—”

Powell held up his hand, cutting her short.

“Enough, Florence.” He sighed softly, pressing his eyes closed a moment. Florence’s heart raced, not just from her risky declaration, but from truly not knowing what Powell’s reaction to it would be. The tiniest of smiles curled his mouth when he opened his eyes again. “The Harvesters agree to a Vicar Tribunal.”

“Really?” Theodosia shifted uncertainly. “The Dragons torched the Tribunal hall and the rest of Ter.0 in the war. They said if we assemble again, they will do worse.”

“What could be worse than what we have already witnessed?” Powell asked. All were silent. “We have no more guild for them to destroy. Faroe has burned. Our mines are stalled. Our fields will go unplowed. Our fishers may be moored for who knows how long, while we attempt to recover what was lost. What more can the Dragons take from us?”

“Our pride, if we let them.” The question was rhetorical, but Florence wanted to drive the point home. It was an almost Arianna-like quip and she was instantly proud of herself for thinking of it so deftly on the spot.

“And the Alchemists will not let them,” Derek said, lending his support.

“The Vicar Alchemist will support the Tribunal?” Powell asked.

“I have no doubt,” Derek affirmed. “Vicar Sophie wants to see the rebellion to power. She wants it for Loom. I’m sure she will stand at the Tribunal.”

Powell seemed satisfied by the response. “We will get word across the narrow strait then, to the Rivets in Ter.3. They are connected by land to the Ravens, who can then get word to the Revolvers.”

“How quickly can we hold the Tribunal?” Strong words aside, the reality of their situation was becoming very apparent to Florence. Communication systems, in all forms, were down. They didn’t even know if there were Vicars left to meet with. Perhaps the Harvesters had been the only ones warned with enough time.

The idea was only kindling to the pyre of Florence’s rage. The Harvesters had been a fluke, with all the Masters in the guild at the time. The other guilds had their Masters positioned throughout the territories. They would regroup. And if word spread far enough and fast enough, they could do so at the Tribunal.

“Two months, perhaps?” Theodosia begrudgingly suggested at a silent behest from Powell. “That would give messengers enough time to get all the way to Dortam, and for the Vicars to travel.”

“Spread the word like wildfire,” Florence suggested aloud. “Invite all of Loom.”

“What if the Dragons choose to attack again?” Max was still clearly uneasy at the idea of gathering in one place.

“We have the numbers on them. Even with Chimera alone, we have the numbers.” The fact had been known since Nova was first discovered. The sky world was a much, much smaller place than Loom. “The only way they will overpower us is with our own weaponry, coronas, and gliders. And how will they get that weaponry when there is no one to build it?”

“We cannot make a real stand against them,” Max pressed.

Derek was quick to speak up again. “Not without the Philosopher’s Box.”

“You keep saying that, boy, but you have no evidence.”

“We do.” All eyes were on Florence. “We do,” she repeated without hesitation. “We have the person who made the very first Philosopher’s Box.”

“Lies.”

“Her name is Arianna, and she is my teacher,” Florence spat venom, protective at the mere round-about accusation against Ari. “She will make the box for the rebellion.”

“Arianna, Arianna the…”

“Rivet,” Florence finished for Max. “A Master Rivet, at that.”

“Who appointed her?” Max asked with squinted eyes.

“Master Oliver.” Florence had only heard the name a few times before, and prayed she had it right. Judging from Max’s reaction, she did.

“That’s impossible.” The man shook his head. “Master Oliver was part of the Counsel of Five—the fools who died in the last rebellion. His student, Arianna, she perished with him.”

“Except she didn’t,” Florence insisted. She was exhausted the moment the defense crossed her lips. Standing for someone whom everyone seemed to know more about than she did was wearying. The first thing Florence would do the moment Arianna returned would be to demand an explanation of everything. “She is alive and well, and is securing the resources to make the box,” Florence lied, perhaps. What Ari was doing was anyone’s guess.

“We will expect to see the box, then, at the Tribunal.” Powell’s tone left no room for question or interpretation—it was now a caveat. “Once the Vicars see the Philosopher’s Box working, we will stand behind the Alchemists’ Rebellion.”

“I don’t know…” Derek started uncertainly.

“Done.” There wasn’t time for hesitation. Derek shot Florence a look from the corners of his eyes. “Can we count on the Harvesters, two months from now, in Ter.0?”

“I will be there to see the Vicar Alchemist and her Philosopher’s Box,” Powell affirmed. “And I will personally see that the other guilds come with me.”

“Thank you, Vicar Powell,” Florence said sincerely.

“The best thanks you can give us is holding up your end of the deal,” he cautioned.

Florence nodded. “We will return to the Alchemists’ Guild with haste, on the fastest train out.”

They didn’t have anything to pack, so the three of them made their way toward Ter.1.2’s main terminal directly from the hall. Florence knew Derek would have something to say about what they had just done, but it took him longer than she expected. When at last he spoke, the words he found were also unforeseeable.

“Florence, Sophie will stand for the Tribunal, but the box…”

“I don’t think she’ll want to share it with the other guilds,” Nora finished.

“That’s lunacy.” Florence shook her head with a small laugh at the comical notion. “How would she see the box built en masse without the Rivet’s tools and factories? Or get the supplies without the Harvesters and Ravens?”

The two exchanged a look. Florence waited for their nonverbal dialogue to end. When it did, Nora linked one arm with Florence’s and Derek linked the other. They walked together as one tight-knit group toward the station.

“Whatever happens, Florence, we’re with you,” Derek spoke for the both of them.

“You may be the worst navigator we’ve ever seen.” Nora gave her a toothy grin. It slipped when their eyes met and Florence desperately wished she could see what Nora saw in that moment. “But so far, you seem to always get the people who stick by your side where they need to be.”

It was a compliment that rang fundamentally Raven, but not. Either way, for the first time, Florence looked beyond the guild affiliation associated with the words and really distilled their meaning. For the first time, she didn’t try to correct any link between herself and the transportation guild of Loom.