“You never know what wrench could get thrown into the machine along the way, Flor.” Ari’s grin was playful, but her words were serious. “Use the dunca from the reagents to get what we’ll need for the trip. I trust your judgment. I’ll fill in the Dragon on the plan and the rules for travel.”
“He doesn’t seem bad.” Florence tried to smooth over the kinks she foresaw in their journey. After all the stories she’d heard of Dragons, she expected a horrible monster. While she wouldn’t call the Dragon handsome by any stretch—his colors were borderline headache-inducing—she wouldn’t call him evil incarnate, either.
Ari stilled. She crossed back to the bed and, with both hands, cradled Florence’s face delicately.
“Listen to me,” Arianna whispered. “None of them seem bad. But they are not what they seem. It’s that thinking that killed Loom, Flor. Don’t trust him. He will turn on you and kill you in a second if it suits him.”
Florence swallowed. She knew Arianna had real memories of the time before the Dragons, when the Five Guilds were free and the world was run by the Vicar tribunal; when Fenthri didn’t have to be marked—when they were free to study and learn as they wanted.
There was a terrifying lust for that time in Ari’s heart.
“Do you understand?”
“I do.” Florence nodded.
“Good.” Ari let go of her face and started for the door again. “Now, get to Mercury Town before it gets too busy. The ‘king’ will want his reagents before they get warm.”
Florence heard the muffled sounds of Ari and the Dragon talking on the other side of the door. She wondered if what her master said was true: if every Dragon was like the ones who had enslaved Loom and, if they were, why Ari had agreed to help one at all. But Ari would remain an enigma, and Florence knew better than to dig too deeply under her ashen skin. Florence said only quick goodbyes as she donned her favorite feathered top hat and grabbed Ari’s bag, heading out for Mercury Town.
Old Dortam had woken and the streets were busy with men and women going about their business. Lace parasols shaded faces and pearl pins adorned ties. Storefronts glistened, freshly washed and still dripping. The air smelled sweetly of welding torches and gunpowder, creating a welcoming potpourri to complement the sounds of metal on metal that echoed over the conversation in the streets.
It was as perfect as a schematic.
Mercury Town, on the other hand, was a schematic of a very different sort. The narrow alleyways and curtained windows created a heavy atmosphere that only grew weightier every time someone opened a door to a parlor and released thick clouds of scented smoke on the backs of jacket-clad patrons. Men in long frock coats stood at some doors, watching those who passed warily, casting a careful eye over the street for any who might feel bold enough to try to put an end to the shadowy dealings that occurred in this tiny pocket of Old Dortam.
Florence wasn’t uncomfortable. She’d been coming here for years now and most of the door guards gave her a nod as she passed. Two streets later, Florence stopped before a man with a shaved head.
“Ralph.” She smiled. “Here for King Louie.”
“Don’t tell me the White Wraith actually did it.”
“If you doubted she would, you shouldn’t have sent her.” Florence proudly flashed him the contents of Ari’s bag. Long enough to tease, never long enough to give away the goods.
“Well, I’ll be greased. Wait here.”
The man disappeared by side-stepping into a narrow door. Florence rocked from her heels to the balls of her feet impatiently, spending the time by making a mental list of the supplies she’d need. She was only ten items down when Ralph reappeared, motioning for her to enter.
Louie was a scrawny, anemic Fenthri who positioned himself chiefly against the Dragons and at the head of Old Dortam’s underworld by adopting the ironic title of “King”. His patent velvet jacket was cutaway, set over another heavy velvet vest underneath. Long black hair, teased into ropes, pulled back tautly and tugged at the skin of his face, making his piercing black eyes look even sharper and more angular. It was all in stark contrast to the white of his skin, not a trace of gray on him.
Florence didn’t let herself be intimidated. The man had more connections with powerful people than a refinery did slag, but that wasn’t going to dissuade her. If this little man was the King of Old Dortam’s underworld, then Ari was his champion knight—and that made Florence her page. The one thing that kings in stories never did was kill their champion’s second.
“I have a delivery from the White Wraith.” Florence slipped the bag off her shoulder, holding it out.
“Let’s see what presents you bring me today.” Louie hooked a bony finger and two men retrieved the bag from Florence. They placed at the foot of Louie’s wing-backed chair. With the toe of his pointed boots, he flipped open the satchel. His eyes lit up like sodium metal in water.