Tenkamenin was a careless man. Yes, he provided protection for Anastasia—but was his staff vetted? And the fact that he practically flaunted Anastasia’s presence at the Lunar Jubilee made Jeri wonder whether the High Blade had any common sense whatsoever. Jeri didn’t trust the man, and knew the feeling was mutual.
And then came Anastasia’s “Sibilant” afternoon in Port Remembrance. Anastasia came to talk to Jeri about it when she returned, unable to keep it all in.
“Each day it’s like I’m hit over the head by how much the world changed while I was out of it,” Anastasia said.
“The world has survived worse,” Jeri told Anastasia, while she endlessly paced. “We survived the mortal age—what could possibly be worse than the horrors of that?”
But she would not be consoled. “Yes, but without the Grandslayers, scythedoms are practically at war with one another, as if it were the mortal age all over again. Where are we heading?”
“Upheaval,” Jeri said matter-of-factly. “Mountains are created by upheaval. I’m sure it doesn’t look pretty at the time.”
It only aggravated her further. “How can you be so calm about it? And Tenkamenin’s even worse than you! He just accepts all this like it’s nothing. Like it’s a passing shower, instead of a hurricane that’s going to tear everything apart! Why is everyone so blind?”
Jeri sighed and put a hand on Anastasia’s shoulder, forcing her to stop pacing. This is why I’m needed here, Jeri thought. To be the second voice in her head, wrangling in the panicking one.
“There is opportunity in every disaster,” Jeri told her. “A ship goes down, that’s when I get excited. Because I know there are always treasures in the wreckage. Look what I found at the bottom of the sea. I found you.”
“And 400,000 scythe diamonds,” Anastasia pointed out.
“My point is, you need to approach this like a salvage operation. In salvage, the first thing we do is carefully assess the situation before we make a move.”
“So I should just sit by and watch?”
“Observe, learn everything you can, and then, when you do move, you move decisively. And I know, when the time comes, you will.”
* * *
High Blade Tenkamenin insisted on formal dinners every night. His entourage of scythes was expected to be there, as well as his honored guests—and since Anastasia’s and Jeri’s arrival, Tenkamenin made sure there were no other guests. It was one thing to throw a party for locals and another to expose Scythe Anastasia to dinner-table scrutiny.
When Jeri arrived that night, Anastasia was already there, along with the High Blade and Scythes Baba and Makeda. The High Blade himself was laughing uproariously at something someone had said—or, more likely, something he himself had said. While Anastasia enjoyed the man, Jeri exhausted of him after their first day.
“You’ve missed the first course,” he told Jeri. “No soup for you.”
Jeri sat beside Anastasia. “I’ll survive.”
“House rules dictate that you be on time for dinner,” Tenkamenin reminded. “It’s a matter of common courtesy.”
“It’s Jeri’s first time late,” offered Anastasia.
“You don’t have to defend me,” Jeri told her, then turned to the High Blade. “I was being updated on the Endura salvage, if you must know. They’ve found the council chamber—the Grandslayers’ Seats of Consideration are being sent to their respective continents to be turned into monuments. I think that was a little more important than soup.”
Tenkamenin did not comment, but five minutes later, during the main course, he prodded Jeri again.
“Tell me, Jerico, how does your crew feel about having an absentee captain?”
Jeri would not be baited. “They are on leave in your city, and grateful for it.”
“I see. And how do you know they are not out making deals without you? Deals that might compromise the security of our dear Lady of the Deep?” he said, using his latest pet name for Anastasia.
“Do not cast aspersions on my crew, Your Excellency,” Jeri said. “They are loyal to a fault. Can you say that of the people you surround yourself with?”
That raised the High Blade’s hackles, but he did not defend his entourage. Instead he changed the subject.
“What do you want out of life, Captain Soberanis?”
“That’s a broad question.”
“Then let me rephrase it. Tell me your dearest dream, Jerico. What do you want to do more than anything in the world, but have not yet done?”
Suddenly Anastasia dropped her silverware so hard that it chipped her plate, and she stood up. “I’ve lost my appetite,” she said, then grabbed Jeri’s hand. “And so have you.” And she stormed away, leaving Jeri no choice but to go with her, if only to keep the hand.
Behind them Tenkamenin burst out laughing. “It was a joke, Anastasia. You know I love to toy!”
She turned long enough to spare him the harshest of glares. “You are an excellent ass, Your Excellency.”
Which only made him laugh harder.
* * *
Jeri was not entirely sure what the inside joke was until they reached Anastasia’s suite, and she closed the door behind them.
“It’s what he asks people he’s going to glean,” she said.
“Ah,” said Jeri. “He did it to get a rise out of you—which he did. The High Blade enjoys pushing people’s buttons, and he knows exactly where yours are.”
“Aren’t you the least bit worried that he might actually do it?”
“Not at all,” Jeri told her. “Because as much as he likes to toy with you, he doesn’t want to turn you against him. If he gleans me, he knows he’ll be your enemy.”
Even so, she held out her hand. The one with the scythe’s ring. It wasn’t her old ring—that one Scythe Possuelo had hurled back into the sea after they found her, since it could be used to trace her whereabouts, if there was actually a scythe out there who understood their own technology. Possuelo had given her a new ring using one of the diamonds from the vault.
“Kiss it,” Anastasia said to Jeri. “Just to be safe.”
So Jeri took her hand and kissed it—missing the ring entirely.
Anastasia pulled her hand back reflexively. “I meant the ring, not the hand!” She held it out again. “Do it right this time.”
“I choose not to,” Jeri said.
“If I give you immunity, no one can glean you for a year. Do it!”
But still Jeri made no move. And when her eyes questioned, Jeri said, “When I found the Vault of Relics and Futures, Possuelo also offered me immunity, but I refused him as well.”
“Why? What possible reason is there?”
“Because I don’t want to be indebted to anyone. Not even you.”
She turned away at that and went to the window, peering out. “There are things out there that I don’t want to know about… but I need to know about them. I need to know everything I can.” Then she turned back to Jeri. “Have you heard anything about Rowan?” she asked
Jeri could have told her that there was no news, but that would be a lie, and Jeri would not lie to Anastasia. They had too much trust between them to jeopardize that. Jeri was silent for a moment, and Anastasia pushed.
“I know Tenkamenin wouldn’t let any news about him reach me in here, but you’ve been in touch with your crew. They must have told you something.”
Jeri heaved a sigh, but only to prepare her for the answer. “Yes, there is news. But nothing I’m going to share, no matter how much you ask me.”
A progression of emotions passed over her. The stages of grief all played out on her face in a matter of seconds. Denial, anger, bargaining, sadness, and, finally, a resolving into acceptance.
“You won’t tell me because there’s nothing I can do,” she said, anticipating the reasons Jeri would give, “and it would distract me from what I need to do.”
“Do you hate me for it?” Jeri asked.
“I could say yes, just out of spite. But
no, Jeri, I don’t hate you. But… can you at least tell me if he’s still alive?”
“Yes,” Jeri said. “Yes, he is. I hope you can find comfort in that.”
“And will he be alive tomorrow?” she asked.
“Not even the Thunderhead can be sure about tomorrow,” Jeri told her. “Let’s be satisfied with today.”
30 Burnt Offering
“Hello, Tyger.”
“Hi,” said Tyger Salazar’s memory construct. “Do I know you?”
“Yes and no,” said Scythe Rand. “I’ve come to tell you that Scythe Lucifer’s been caught.”
“Scythe Lucifer… isn’t that the one who’s been killing other scythes?”
“It is,” said Rand. “And you know him.”
“Doubt it,” said the construct. “I know some twisted people, but nobody that twisted.”
“It’s your friend, Rowan Damisch.”
The construct paused and then laughed. “Nice try,” it said. “Did Rowan put you up to this? Rowan!” it called. “Where are you hiding? Come on out.”
“He’s not here.”
“Don’t try to tell me that he’s killing people—he never even got to be a scythe—they booted his ass out and gave it to that girl instead.”
“He’s going to be executed tomorrow,” Rand said.
The construct hesitated, furrowed its brow. They were so well programmed, these constructs. They compiled the memories of every facial expression of the subject that had ever been recorded. The representation was sometimes so true to life, it was unnerving.
“You’re not kidding, are you?” said Tyger’s construct. “Well, you can’t let it happen! You have to stop it!”
“It’s out of my hands.”
“Then put it back in your hands! I know Rowan better than anyone—if he did what you say he did, then he had a good reason. You can’t just glean him!” Then the construct began looking around as if it was aware it was in a limited world. A virtual box that it wanted to get out of. “It’s wrong!” it said. “You can’t do this!”
“What do you know about right and wrong?” snapped Rand. “You’re nothing but a foolish dim-witted party boy!”
It glared at her in fury. The micro-pixels of its image increased the percentage of red in its face. “I hate you,” it said. “Whoever the hell you are, I hate you.”
Ayn quickly hit a button and ended the conversation. Tyger’s memory construct vanished. As always, it would not remember this conversation. As always, Ayn would.
* * *
“If you’re going to glean him, why not just glean him?” Scythe Rand asked Goddard, doing her best not to sound as frustrated as she was. There were many reasons for her frustration. First of all, a stadium was a difficult venue to secure from their enemies—and they did have enemies. Not just the old-guard scythes, but everyone from Tonists, to scythedoms who had shunned Goddard, to the disgruntled loved ones from mass gleanings.
It was just the two of them in Goddard’s private plane. Now that the motorcade was nearing its destination after nearly a week of winding through its prolonged victory lap, he and Rand were flying to meet it—a flight as short as Rowan Damisch’s journey was long. Like Goddard’s rooftop chalet, the plane was retrofitted with mortal-age weaponry. A series of missiles that hung from each wing. He would regularly fly low over communities that he deemed defiant. He never used the missiles to glean, but just like those rooftop cannons, they were a reminder that he could if he chose to.
“If you want a public display,” Ayn suggested, “make the gleaning more controlled. Maybe a broadcast from a small, undisclosed location. Why do you have to make a spectacle of everything?”
“Because I enjoy spectacles—and there’s no reason needed beyond that.”
But of course there was a bigger reason. Goddard wanted the world to know that he had personally apprehended and executed the greatest public enemy of the post-mortal age. Not only to raise Goddard’s image among common people, but to gain the admiration of scythes who might be on the fence about him. Everything with Goddard was either strategic or impulsive. This grand event was strategic. Turning the gleaning of Rowan Damisch into a show would make it impossible for anyone to ignore.
“There will be over a thousand scythes from around the world in that audience,” Goddard reminded her. “They wish to see it, and I wish to provide it. Who are we to deny them their catharsis?”
Rand had no idea what that meant and didn’t really care. Goddard spouted erudite gibberish with such regularity, Rand had learned to turn her ears off to it.
“There are better ways to handle this,” Rand said.
Now Goddard’s expression began to sour. They hit a small pocket of turbulence, which Goddard probably believed was brought on by his mood. “Are you trying to tell me how to be a scythe—or worse—how to be an Overblade?”
“How could I to tell you how to be something that didn’t exist until you made it up?”
“Careful, Ayn,” he warned. “Don’t anger me at a time I should be feeling nothing but joy.” He let his warning sink in, then leaned back in his chair. “I would think you, of all people, would love to see Rowan suffer after what he did to you. He broke your back and left you for dead, and you want his gleaning to be a small, quiet thing?”
“I want him gleaned just as much as you do. But gleaning should not be entertainment.”
To which Goddard said with an infuriating grin, “It’s entertaining to me.”
* * *
As Scythe Lucifer, Rowan had been very careful to make sure the scythes he ended never suffered. They were gleaned quickly. It was only after they were dead that he burned the bodies to render them unrevivable. It didn’t surprise him that Goddard was lacking in such mercy. Rowan’s agony would be prolonged for maximum effect.
There was only so much bravado that Rowan could muster. As the execution motorcade wove its way to his doom, he finally had to admit to himself that he truly did care about whether he lived or died. And while it didn’t bother him how history might remember him, he was troubled by how his family would. His mother, and his many brothers and sisters, must already know that he was Scythe Lucifer—because once blame for the sinking of Endura was foisted upon him, it made Rowan infamous. The crowds that turned out to get a glimpse of the motorcade was proof of that.
Would his family be there in the audience? If not, would they be watching from home? What happened to the families of notorious criminals back in mortal days, he wondered—for there was no equivalent to Scythe Lucifer in post-mortal times. Would they have been damned by association, and gleaned? Rowan’s father had been gleaned before Endura sank, so he never knew what his son had become, and how the world hated him. There was a mercy in that. But if his mother and siblings were still alive, they must have despised him, for how could they not? That realization was more demoralizing than anything else.
He had plenty of time to be alone with his own thoughts during the motorcade’s winding journey. His thoughts were not his friends—at least not anymore, because all they did was remind him of the choices he had made, and how they had led him here. What once felt justified, now felt foolhardy. What once seemed brave, now just seemed sad.
It could have been different. He could have just disappeared like Scythe Faraday when he had the chance. Where was Faraday now, he wondered. Would he be streaming the event and weeping for him? It would be nice to know that someone wept for him. Citra would, wherever she was. That would have to be enough.
* * *
The gleaning was scheduled for seven in the evening, but people had arrived early. There were scythes and ordinary citizens in the crowd—and although the scythes did have a special entrance, they had been encouraged by Goddard to sit in among the rabble.
“This is a golden public relations opportunity,” Goddard had told them. “Smile and say kind things. Listen attentively to their twaddle and pretend to care—maybe even grant some immunity.” Many followed the directive; some could not
bring themselves to and sat only with other scythes.
Rowan, under heavy guard, was taken directly to a large staging area with access directly onto the field. The woodpile they had prepared for him was a three-story pyramid that appeared to be made of gathered branches, like a random collection of stacked driftwood—but closer inspection proved everything to be part of an intricately engineered design. The branches weren’t just stacked, but nailed in place, and the whole thing was on a huge rolling platform, like a parade float. The very center was hollowed out, and in the hollow was a stone pillar to which Rowan was tightly secured by fire-resistant bindings. The pillar was on a lift that would raise Rowan to the top of the pyramid, revealing him to the crowd at the right moment. Then Goddard himself would light it.
“This baby is not your ordinary pyre!” explained the tech in charge as he wanded off Rowan’s pain nanites. “I was part of the team that designed this beauty! There are actually four kinds of wood here. Ash wood for an even burn, Osage orange for heat, rowan wood for—well—obvious reasons, and a few pockets of knotty pine for a nice crackle!”
The tech checked the tweaker’s readout, confirming that Rowan’s pain nanites had been shut down, then got back to explaining the wonders of the death float, like a kid at the science fair.
“Oh, and you’re gonna love this!” he said. “The branches on the outer rim have been treated with potassium salts, so they’ll burn violet—then farther up, it’s calcium chloride, so they’ll burn blue, and so on and so forth, through all the colors of the spectrum!” Then he pointed at the black robe that the guards had forcibly put Rowan in. “And that robe has been infused with strontium chloride so it burns deep red. You’ll be better than New Year’s Eve fireworks!”
“Gee, thanks,” Rowan said flatly. “Too bad I won’t get to see it.”
“Oh, you will,” the tech said cheerily. “There’s an exhaust fan built into the base that will suck all the smoke away, so everyone will get a good view—even you!” Then he took out a piece of brown cloth. “This is a guncotton gag,” the tech told him. “It’s quick burning, and’ll incinerate right off the moment it’s exposed to heat.” Then he stopped himself, finally realizing that Rowan didn’t need or want to know these things. A quick-burning gag that allowed people to hear him scream was not the kind of accessory he could get enthused about. Now Rowan was glad they hadn’t offered him a last meal, because he was way too nauseated to have held it down.
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