And although neither Anastasia nor Marie were in the state of mind for such things, they did not decline the offer.
“Perhaps a day of pleasant diversions is what we need,” Marie said, after Xenocrates had left. Then she took the tablet from Anastasia and dispersed the predatory view.
• • •
After leaving Scythes Anastasia and Curie, His Exalted Excellency, Grandslayer Xenocrates, surveyed his domain from the glass-walled, glass-roofed penthouse suite atop the North Merican tower, which had been bestowed on him upon ascending to Grandslayer status. It was one of seven such residences, each one atop the Grandslayer towers around the central eye of Endura. Within the eye, luxury submarines arrived and departed; water taxies shuttled people about; pleasure craft zigged back and forth. He could see one visiting scythe on a Jet Ski still in his robe, which was not a good idea. The fabric acted like a parasail, lifting him off the back of the Jet Ski and depositing him in the water. Idiot. The scythedom was cursed with idiots. They might have been blessed with wisdom, but common sense was a trait sorely lacking among them.
The sun beamed down on him through the glass roof, and he had his valet try to work the shades. It always seemed that the shade that would actually block the sun was inoperative, and getting a repairman was next to impossible—even for a Grandslayer.
“This is only a recent occurrence,” his valet told him. “Since about the time of your arrival, things just haven’t been working the way they should.” As if somehow this plague of functional failure were Xenocrates’s fault.
He inherited his valet from Grandslayer Hemingway. Only the scythes in Hemingway’s employ were required to self-glean along with him, but the service staff remained. It provided a sense of continuity—although Xenocrates suspected he’d eventually replace all of them, so that he didn’t have to feel they were always comparing him to their former employer.
“I find it ridiculous that the roof of this residence must also be made of glass,” Xenocrates commented, not for the first time. “I feel as if I am on display for every passing aircraft and jetpacker.”
“Yes, but the crystalline appearance of the tower pinnacles is beautiful, isn’t it?”
Xenocrates harrumphed at that. “Isn’t form supposed to follow function?”
“Not in the scythedom,” replied his valet.
So now Xenocrates had reached the shining peak of the world. The culmination of all his life’s ambitions. Yet even now, he found himself projecting his next success. Someday, he would be Supreme Blade. Even if he had to wait for all the other Grandslayers to self-glean.
There was, even in this new elevated position, a sense of humility he had not expected. He had gone from being the most powerful scythe in MidMerica to being the junior-most scythe on the World Council—and although the other six Grandslayers had approved him for the position, it didn’t mean they were ready to treat him as an equal. Even at this high level, there were dues to pay, respect to earn.
For instance, upon his confirmation, just one day after Scythe Hemingway and his underscythes had self-gleaned, Supreme Blade Kahlo had made an offhand remark to Xenocrates in front of all the other Grandslayers.
“So much heavy fabric must be an encumbrance,” she said of his robe. “Especially here in the horse latitudes.” Then she added, without so much as a grin. “You should find a way to shed some of it.”
Of course, she was not referring to a lighter fabric, but to the fact that it took so much of it to clothe him. He had gone beet-red at the comment, and when he did, the Supreme Blade laughed.
“You look downright cherubic, Xenocrates,” she said.
That evening, he had a wellness technician adjust his nanites to substantially speed up his metabolism. As High Blade of MidMerica, maintaining an impressive weight was intentional. He was imposing, and it added to the impression of him being larger than life. But here, among the Grandslayers, he felt like an overweight child chosen last for a sports team.
“With your metabolism dialed to maximum, it will take you six to nine months to reach your optimal weight,” the wellness tech had told him. It was much longer than he had patience for, but he had little choice in the matter. Well, at least he didn’t have to curb his appetite and exercise, as they had to do in mortal days.
As he pondered his slowly shrinking belly and the follies of the vacationing scythes below, his valet returned, looking a bit unsettled.
“Excuse me, Your Exalted Excellency,” he said. “You have a visitor.”
“Is it anyone I want to see?”
The valet’s Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably. “It’s Scythe Goddard.”
Which was absolutely the last person he wanted to see. “Tell him I’m busy.”
But even before the valet could leave to deliver the message, Goddard barged in. “Your Exalted Excellency!” he said jovially. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“You have,” Xenocrates said. “But you’re already here, so there’s nothing I can do about it.” He dismissed his valet with a wave of his hand, resigned that this encounter could not be sidestepped. What was it the Tonists said? That which comes cannot be avoided.
“I’ve never seen a Grandslayer’s suite,” Goddard said, strolling about the living room, examining everything from the furniture to the artwork. “It’s inspiring!”
Xenocrates wasted no time with small talk. “I wish you to know that the moment you resurfaced, I made sure that Esme and her mother were hidden away in a place you’ll never find them—so if it is your aim to use them against me, it won’t work.”
“Ah yes, Esme,” said Goddard, as if thinking about her for the first time in ages. “How is your darling daughter? Growing like a weed, I imagine. Or more like a shrub. I do so miss her!”
“Why are you here?” demanded Xenocrates, annoyed at Goddard’s presence, and the blasted sunlight that kept shining into his eyes, and the air conditioner that could not find a consistent temperature.
“Just to be given equal time, Your Exalted Excellency,” Goddard said. “I know that you met with Scythe Curie this morning. It could seem biased to meet with her and not with me.”
“It would seem biased because it is,” Xenocrates said. “I don’t approve of your ideas, or your actions, Goddard. I will not keep that a secret anymore.”
“And yet you recused yourself from tomorrow’s inquest.”
Xenocrates sighed. “Because the Supreme Blade asked me to. Now I will ask you again, why are you here?”
And once more, Goddard indulged himself in yet another beat around the bush. “I merely wished to pay my respects to you and apologize for past indiscretions, so that we may have a clean slate between us.” Then he spread his arms palms up in a beatific gesture, to indicate his new body. “As you can see, I’m a changed man. And if I become High Blade of MidMerica, it will be in both our interests to have a good relationship.”
Then Goddard stood at the great curved window, just as Xenocrates had done a few moments before, looking down at the view, as if it might be his one day.
“I wish to know how the winds are blowing in the council,” he said.
“Haven’t you heard?” mocked Xenocrates. “There are no winds at these latitudes.”
Goddard ignored him. “I know that Supreme Blade Kahlo and Grandslayer Cromwell do not support the ideals of new-order scythes, but Grandslayers Hideyoshi and Amundsen do. . . .”
“If you already know that, then why are you asking me?”
“Because Grandslayers Nzinga and MacKillop have not expressed an opinion either way. It is my hope that you could appeal to them.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because,” said Goddard, “in spite of your self-serving nature, I know that you are, at heart, a truly honorable scythe. And as an honorable man, it is your duty to serve justice.” He took a step closer. “You know as well as I do that this inquest is not at all in the spirit of fairness. I believe your formidable diplomatic sk
ills can persuade the council to put their worldviews aside and make a decision that is fair and just.”
“And allowing you to become High Blade after a year’s absence, and with only seven percent of you intact, is fair and just?”
“I’m not asking for that—I’m only asking that I not be disqualified before the vote is tallied. Let the MidMerican scythedom speak. Let their decision stand, whatever it is.”
Xenocrates suspected that Goddard would be so magnanimous only if he somehow knew that he had won the election.
“Is that it?” asked Xenocrates. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“Actually, no,” Goddard said, and finally got to the heart of his purpose there. Rather than saying anything, he reached into an inner pocket of his robe, and pulled out another robe, folded and wrapped in a bow, like a gift. He tossed it to Xenocrates. It was black. The robe of Scythe Lucifer.
“You . . . you caught him?”
“Not only have I caught him, but I’ve brought him here to Endura to face judgment.”
Xenocrates gripped the robe. He had told Rowan that he didn’t care if he was caught. That had been true; once Xenocrates knew that he was about to become a Grandslayer, capturing Rowan seemed an insignificant matter, better left to his successor. But now that Goddard had him, it changed the entire board.
“I intend to present him to the council at the inquest tomorrow, as a goodwill gesture,” Goddard said. “It is my hope that it can be a feather in your cap, rather than a thorn in your side.”
Xenocrates did not like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
“Well, on the one hand,” Goddard said, “I could tell the council that it was your efforts that led me to capturing him. I was working under your directive.” Then he paused to finger a paperweight on a table, setting it rocking back and forth. “Or I could point to the apparent incompetence of your investigation. . . . But was it really incompetence? After all, Scythe Constantine is regarded as the best investigator in all the Mericas . . . and the fact that Rowan Damisch visited you in your favorite bathhouse suggests, at the very least, collusion between the two of you, if not friendship. If people knew about that meeting, they might think, among other things, that you were behind his crimes all along.”
Xenocrates drew a deep breath. It was like being punched in the gut. He could already see the brush that Goddard was holding, and it was poised to paint a huge swath across him. Never mind that the meeting was entirely Damisch’s doing, and that Xenocrates had absolutely nothing wrong. That didn’t matter. The innuendo was enough to skewer him.
“Get out!” yelled Xenocrates. “Get out before I hurl you from this window!”
“Oh, please do!” said a gleeful Goddard. “This body of mine enjoys a good splatting!”
And when Xenocrates made no move, Goddard laughed. Not a cruel, cold laugh but a hearty one. A friendly one. He grabbed Xenocrates’s shoulder and shook it gently, as if they were the best of comrades.
“You have no need to worry, old friend,” he said. “No matter what happens tomorrow, I will make no accusation, and will tell no one that Rowan paid you a visit. In fact, as a precaution, I’ve already gleaned the bathhouse bartender who was spreading rumors. Rest assured, whether I win or lose the inquest, your secret will be safe with me—because in spite of what you may think, I am an honorable man, too.”
Then Goddard sauntered out. Swaggered was more like it—no doubt the muscle memory of the young man whose body he now had.
And Xenocrates realized that Goddard wasn’t lying. He would be true to his word. He wouldn’t cast aspersions on Xenocrates, or tell the council of how he had let Rowan Damisch go that night. Goddard wasn’t here to blackmail Xenocrates—his purpose was to simply let Xenocrates know that he could. . . .
. . . Which meant that even here, at the pinnacle of the scythedom, at the top of the world, Xenocrates was still nothing but a bug ever so carefully pinched between Goddard’s stolen fingers.
• • •
The guide giving Scythes Curie and Anastasia a personalized tour of the island’s highlights had lived on Endura for over eighty years, and exhibited a sense of pride that she hadn’t left the floating island once in all that time.
“Once you’ve found paradise, why go anywhere else?” she told them.
It was difficult not to be awed by the things Anastasia saw. Gorgeous gardens on terraced hills that looked like an actual landscape, skywalks connecting the many towers, as well as glass seawalks that ran from building to building on the island’s underbelly—each programmed with its own ambient sea life swarming around it.
In the Museum of the Scythedom, there was the Chamber of the Enduring Heart, which Anastasia had heard rumors of but until recently never believed truly existed. The heart floated in a glass cylinder, connected to biologically merged electrodes. It beat at a steady rate, its sound amplified in the room so that everyone could hear.
“One could say that Endura is alive, because it has a heart,” their guide said. “This heart is the oldest living human organ on Earth. It began beating in the mortal age, toward the beginning of the twenty-first century, as part of the earliest experiments in immortality, and hasn’t stopped since.”
“Whose heart is it?” Anastasia asked.
The guide was stumped, as if she had never been asked the question before. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably some random test subject, I suppose. The mortal age was a barbaric time. One could barely cross the street in the early twenty-first century without being kidnapped for experimentation.”
But to Anastasia, the highlight of the tour was the Vault of Relics and Futures. It wasn’t a place open to the public—and even scythes had to get special permission from a High Blade or Grandslayer to see it—which they had.
It was a solid steel cubic chamber, magnetically suspended within a larger cube like a puzzle box, and was accessible by a narrow, retractable bridge.
“The central chamber was designed after a mortal-age bank vault,” their guide told them. “A foot of solid steel on all sides. The door alone weighs almost two tons.” As they crossed the bridge to the inner vault, the guide reminded them that there were no pictures allowed. “The scythedom is strict about that. Outside of these walls, this place must exist only in memory.”
The inner chamber was twenty feet across, and on one side were mounted a series of golden mannequins, all dressed in aging scythe robes. One of embroidered multicolored silk, another of cobalt blue satin, another of gossamer silver lace—thirteen in total. Anastasia gasped. She couldn’t help herself, because she recognized them from her history lessons. “Are these the robes of the founding scythes?”
The guide smiled, and strode past them, pointing to each as she passed. “Da Vinci, Gandhi, Sappho, King, Laozi, Lennon, Cleopatra, Powhatan, Jefferson, Gershwin, Elizabeth, Confucius, and, of course, Supreme Blade Prometheus! All the founders’ robes are preserved here!” Anastasia noted with some satisfaction that all of the female founders went by a single name, as she did.
Even Scythe Curie was impressed by the display of founders’ robes. “To be in the presence of such greatness does take one’s breath away!”
So enamored was Anastasia of the robes of the founders that it took her a few moments to notice what lined the other three walls of the vault.
Diamonds! Row after row of them. The room glistened with every color of the spectrum refracting through the gems. These were the gems that had been on every scythe’s ring. They were all of identical size and shape, and all had the same dark center.
“The gems were forged by the founding scythes, and are here for safekeeping,” the guide told her. “No one knows how they were made—it is a technology lost to scythedom. But there’s no need to worry—there are enough gems here to bejewel nearly 400,000 scythes.”
Why, wondered Citra, would there ever be a need for 400,000 scythes?
“Does anyone know why they look the way they do?” she asked.
“I’
m sure the founders did,” their guide said, cheerily evading the question. Then she tried to dazzle them with facts about the vault’s locking mechanism.
To complete the day, they went to the Endura Opera House that evening for a performance of Verdi’s Aida. There was no threat of annihilation, and no obsequious neighbors beside them. In fact, many of those present were visiting scythes, which made getting in and out of their row a major endeavor, considering the bulkiness of all those scythe robes.
The music was lush and melodramatic. It instantly brought Anastasia back to the only other opera she had seen—also by Verdi. She had first met Rowan that night. They had been brought together by Scythe Faraday. She had not the slightest inkling that he would ask her to be an apprentice, but Rowan had known—or at least suspected it.
The opera was easy to follow: a forbidden love between an Egyptian military commander and a rival queen, which ended with eternal entombment for the two of them. So many mortal-age narratives concluded with the finality of death. It was as if they were endlessly obsessed with the limited nature of their lives. Well, at least the music was pretty.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Marie asked, as they descended the grand opera house stairs when the performance was over.
“I am ready to state our case,” Anastasia said, deferring to the fact that it was not just hers, but theirs. “Not sure I’m ready to face the possible outcome, though.”
“If we lose the inquest, I still might have the votes to be High Blade.”
“I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
“Either way,” said Marie, “it will be an overwhelming prospect. To be High Blade of MidMerica is not something I ever desired. Well, maybe in my youth—those days when I swung my blade to bring down the bloated egos of the high and mighty. But not anymore.”
“When Scythe Faraday took Rowan and me on as apprentices, he told us that not wanting the job is the first step toward deserving it.”
Marie smiled at her ruefully. “We are forever impaled upon our own wisdom.” Then her smile faded. “If I do become High Blade, you realize I will, for the sake of the scythedom, have to hunt Rowan down and bring him to justice.”
Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe Book 2) Page 32