“You must have heard something else of use to our House.”
“I did hear that Yveun went beneath Lysip not more than a month before the Court.”
“Beneath?” she emphasized for clarity. “Why would Yveun lower himself to such measures?”
“I don’t know.”
Petra cursed. “Find out.”
“It would be easier if he trusted me.”
“Then go back and earn his trust.”
“I am House Xin, I will never earn his trust.” Finnyr sighed heavily. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“You give me something I could use as a bartering chip to do it.” Finnyr seemed determined to toe dangerous lines. She ground her teeth together, reminding herself not to rip out his throat. “Give me something small, something that changes nothing. I could spin it into a lie, even, but the best lie has a grain of truth. Tell me how you are training Dragons like this Ari—for he now knows you have the means for warriors such as her. Tell me of your work on the refineries; are you putting gold aside for Xin? You must be; Yveun would assume this anyway, my saying so would pose no extra risk. Or Cvareh’s journey to Loom. Yveun seeks our brother’s blood already, him knowing how his Riders were killed would not satiate that lust for violence. And he would certainly not share the truth, as the whole affair is a source of shame considering how many Riders he lost.”
“No,” Petra spoke quietly, stopping him before he could think of any more useless ideas. “Your words are near treason, Finnyr. You will not bargain our truths for his favor. That makes us exactly what he wants House Xin to be: loyal at all costs. If you must tell him anything, fabricate something. Tell him whatever you please.”
“He will know if I am lying. He’ll see it lacks no substance!”
“Than become a better liar.”
“Petra, I cannot help you if you will not let me in!” A familiar hurt colored Finnyr’s voice. “I cannot be loyal to House Xin if I do not know what House Xin needs.”
“House Xin needs information on Rok. House Xin needs you to relay information pertinent to our success.”
“And I—”
“I have spoken.” Petra cut him short. She’d had enough of this tantrum. “Go back to the Dono’s temporary estate and come back to me tomorrow with something tangible. Have some self-respect as a Xin’Kin and make use of yourself to our House.”
“The Dono has told me that I would stay in the Xin Manor during the Court.”
“The Dono does not decide who sleeps in my halls, and he would do well to remember it.” Furthermore, Petra could not stand to look at Finnyr for a second longer. Not after this slew of disappointments. If he returned to the manor, she might kill him before the night was over, just so the mere knowledge of his ineptitude couldn’t shame her further.
“Petra—”
“I have spoken!” Her teeth clicked together as she slammed them shut into a half snarl. “Now leave, Finnyr.”
Finnyr looked at her as if considering disobedience. Lucky for them both, he retreated. Petra took a deep breath of the air that was wholly hers the moment he left.
She had somehow managed to avoid killing Finnyr for over three decades, but every time he was around her it was a test of her resolve on the matter. He was the embodiment of all that she loathed: entitlement without effort, weakness, proximity to House Rok. Petra would not kill a member of House Xin without good reason, especially not her elder brother.
But eventually, she knew it could not be helped if he continued as he was.
Petra stared into the setting sun, the gold fading in the wake of Lord Xin’s hour growing nigh. Petra invited the strength of the Death-giver into her heart. So, too, would she someday watch the sun set on House Rok.
29. Florence
“How did the Dragons save Loom?” Florence was utterly baffled. All her life, she’d felt the negative effects of the Dragons’ presence in her world.
“How old are you?” Powell asked.
“Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen later this year.”
“And you’re still an initiate?” He raised his eyebrows, referring to her outlined mark. “You should have taken the second round of tests for Journeyman by now.”
Florence stayed her tongue, choosing to look out the window.
“I see.” She had no doubt Powell actually did. “Revolvers, then?”
She neither confirmed nor denied the fact.
Powell merely chuckled at her silence. “Come with me, Flor.”
Florence followed the Harvester away from the outer ring of windows and into a narrow hall lit by biophosphorous. She took note of the same lanterns she had seen in the tunnels below. “Does Faroe have no generators?”
The man glanced at the lanterns. “There isn’t much room for anything unnecessary here. Generators take up precious space that could be otherwise dedicated to the essentials.”
“I see,” she mumbled as they pressed onward and upward.
The stairs wound straight up into an open second floor. Large tables made a ring by each of the windows. Men and women, all bearing a sickle on their cheeks, walked between them, stopping at smaller tables to check things and make notes along the way. Chimera sat in an innermost ring of chairs, their brightly colored ears betraying their black blood.
“This is where we plan new mines,” Powell explained. “We have a bird’s eye view of the immediate area. Each of the other cities in Ter.1 has towers of their own that function for the same or similar purposes. To the north, it’s mostly plotting farmland. On the coastlines, they serve as lighthouses for the sailors as well.”
He led her over to one of the tables that sat flush against a window, strategically picking one with the least amount of activity.
“On the maps we mark the depth and location of existing mines, as well as what they’re producing.”
The map was covered with marks, crossed out and marked again and again. Lines in different colored chalk wound around and between them. Dust from past coloring hazed the paper.
“The chalk is for veins and pockets of minerals, which we then—” He directed Florence to the inner table that sat opposite. “Mark and note how much is harvested. These numbers are compared against historic numbers and reports from the guilds to estimate how much needs to be pulled from the earth.”
He motioned toward the Chimera sitting in the middle, engaged in conversations seemingly with their palms, fingertips touching their ears, or with the other Harvesters who walked around the room.
“Then the reports go out to the mines, as well as to another group of Chimera upstairs who then communicate with the Ravens to see the resources are ultimately moved to where they need to go.”
“How did the communication happen before magic?” Florence couldn’t help but wonder.
“Much more slowly,” Powell admitted. “Letters delivered by couriers. Though our overall perception on mining was different then.”