فصل 27

27 Tenkamenin’s Pleasure Dome

The Spence traversed the Atlantic with Scythe Anastasia, sailing a direct course for the region of SubSahara, on the Afric continent. It was a distance much shorter than most people might think, taking just under three days. They arrived in the coastal town of Port Remembrance while the North Merican scythes were still searching for Anastasia in the far reaches of South Merica.

In mortal days, Port Remembrance had been known as Monrovia, but the Thunderhead decided that the region’s dark history of subjugation and slavery, followed by poorly planned repatriation, warranted an entirely new name that would offend absolutely no one. Naturally, people were offended. But the Thunderhead stuck to its decision—and, as with all decisions the Thunderhead made, it turned out to be the right one.

Scythe Anastasia was met by SubSahara’s High Blade Tenkamenin himself upon her arrival—as a vocal opponent of Goddard, he had agreed to provide her secret sanctuary.

“So much ado about a junior scythe!” he said in a booming, genial voice as he greeted her. His robe was colorful and meticulously designed to pay homage to every historical culture in the region. “Not to worry, little one, you’re safe and among friends.” While Citra found Possuelo’s meu anjo—my angel—endearing, being called “little one” felt diminutive. She held her head high as Scythe Anastasia and, in the name of diplomacy, did not comment. Instead Jeri did.

“Not so little,” Jeri said.

The High Blade threw Jeri a dubious gaze. “And you are?”

“Jerico Soberanis, captain of the vessel that so successfully brought Scythe Anastasia into your welcoming arms.” “I’ve heard of you,” Tenkamenin said. “A scavenger of note.”

“Salvager,” Jeri corrected. “I find what’s lost, and fix things that are beyond repair.” “Noted,” said Tenkamenin. “Thank you for your fine service.” Then the High Blade put a fatherly arm around Anastasia, leading her away from the dock with his entourage. “Oh, but you must be tired and hungry for something more than maritime fare. We have all things prepared for your comfort.” Jeri, however, kept pace with them until Tenkamenin asked, “Have you not been paid? Surely Possuelo has taken care of that.” “I’m sorry, Your Excellency,” Jeri said, “but Scythe Possuelo specifically assigned me to be by Scythe Anastasia’s side at all times. I sincerely hope you’re not asking me to violate that order.” The High Blade heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well,” he said, then turned to his entourage as if it was a single entity. “Set an extra place for our fine Madagascan captain at dinner and prepare an adequate room.” Finally, Anastasia spoke up. “Adequate will not be adequate,” she told the High Blade. “Jerico risked everything to bring me here, and should be treated with the same courtesy as you treat me.” The entourage braced for something volcanic, but after a moment, the High Blade laughed heartily.

“Spunk,” he said, “is highly valued here. We will get along!” Then he turned to Jeri. “Captain, forgive me, but I love to toy. I mean nothing by it. You are most welcome here as an esteemed guest, and will be treated as such.” Jeri had received no such order from Possuelo. Jerico was told to bring Anastasia here and the job would be done. Jeri, however, was not ready to part ways with the turquoise scythe—and besides, the crew of the Spence was overdue for some downtime. The western shores of SubSahara would be a welcome leave. And that freed Jeri to keep an eye on Anastasia, and the High Blade, who seemed a little too ingratiating.

“Do you trust him?” Jeri asked Anastasia before they got into the sedans that would spirit them to Tenkamenin’s palace.

“Possuelo does,” Anastasia said. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Possuelo also trusted that junior scythe who sold you out to Goddard,” Jeri pointed out. Anastasia had no response to that. “I will be your second pair of eyes,” Jeri told Anastasia.

“Probably not necessary, but I appreciate it,” she said.

Jeri was usually about the bottom line but found that Anastasia’s appreciation was payment enough for services rendered.

Tenkamenin, who went by Tenka to those close to him, had a disarming and effusive nature to go with his deep voice—a voice that resounded even when he whispered. Citra found it endearing as well as intimidating. She resolved to put aside Citra Terranova and be Scythe Anastasia at all times around him.

She noted that Tenkamenin’s genetic index leaned a bit toward Afric. Understandable, as this was the continent that had contributed those genes to humanity’s biological mélange. Anastasia, herself, had a tinge more Afric in her than PanAsian, Caucasoid, Mesolatino, or any of the subindexes that were corralled under “other.” As they rode together, Tenkamenin read it in her and commented on it.

“We’re not supposed to notice these things,” he said, “but I do. All it means is that we are a teeny bit more closely related.” His residence was more than just a residence. Tenkamenin had built himself a stately pleasure dome.

“I do not call it Xanadu, as Kublai Khan did,” he told Anastasia. “Besides, Scythe Khan had absolutely no taste. The Mongolian scythedom was right to bulldoze it the moment he self-gleaned.” The palace was, like Tenka himself, stylish and the epitome of good taste. “I am no parasite, taking over estates and mansions that belong to others, then kicking them out,” he told her proudly. “This place was built from the ground up! I invited entire communities to work, and filled their idle time with rewarding labor. And still they work, adding more each year. Not because I ask them to, but because it is their pleasure.” Although Anastasia initially doubted it was their choice, her conversations with the workers proved her wrong. They truly did love Tenka, and the time they devoted to working on his palace was entirely of their own accord. It didn’t hurt that he paid far above and beyond the Basic Income Guarantee.

The palace was full of old-world eccentricities that were whimsical and added to the flavor of the place. The anachronistic uniforms of the staff were all from different historical eras. A collection of classic toys going back hundreds of years. And then there were the phones. Boxy plastic things of various colors that sat on tables or hung on walls. They had handsets that were connected to the bases by long, curly cords that stretched like springs and tangled easily.

“I like the idea of communication tethering you to a single spot,” Tenkamenin told Anastasia. “It forces you to give every conversation the attention it deserves.” But since those phones were reserved for Tenkamenin’s private calls, they never rang. Anastasia supposed it was because there was very little private about Tenkamenin. He lived his life like he were in a window display.

The morning after her arrival, Anastasia was called in for a meeting with Tenkamenin and Scythes Baba and Makeda—permanent fixtures in the High Blade’s entourage, whose apparent purpose in life was to be an audience for him. Baba had a biting wit and enjoyed making jokes that no one but Tenka understood. Makeda seemed to find her greatest joy in belittling Baba.

“Ah! Our lady of the deep arrives!” said Tenka. “Sit, won’t you—we have much to discuss.” Anastasia sat, and they offered her little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, arranged on the tray like a pinwheel. The High Blade was all about presentation.

“It is my understanding that word is spreading about your revival. While Goddard’s allies are trying to keep it quiet, our old-guard friends are making it known. We’ll build the anticipation, so that when you officially present yourself, the whole world will be listening.” “If the world will be listening, I’ll have to have something to say.”

“You will,” Tenka said with such certainty that it made her wonder what he had in mind. “We have stumbled across some information of the most incriminating kind,” “Incrimination in a world without crime or nations,” said Baba. “Imagine that.” Tenkamenin laughed, and Scythe Makeda rolled her eyes. Then the High Blade reached across the table and placed a small origami swan on Anastasia’s empty bread plate. “Secrets folded upon secrets,” he said with a grin. “Tell me, Anastasia, how skilled are you at digging through the Thunderhead’s backbrain?” “Very,” she told him.

“Good,” said Tenkamenin. “When you unfold the swan, you’ll find something to get you started.” Anastasia turned the swan over in her fingers. “What will I be looking for?” “You must blaze that path. I won’t tell you what to look for, because if I do, you’ll miss the things you would intuitively find.” “The things we probably missed,” added Makeda. “We need fresh eyes on this.” “And besides,” said Scythe Baba, triple-teaming her. “It’s not enough for you to know—you’ve got find it—so you can show others how to find it, too.” “Precisely,” said Tenkamenin. “A successful lie is not fueled by the liar; it is fueled by the willingness of the listener to believe. You can’t expose a lie without first shattering the will to believe it. That is why leading people to truth is so much more effective than merely telling them.” Tenkamenin’s words hung in the air, and Anastasia looked at the swan again, not wanting to ruin it by unfolding its delicate wings.

“Once you draw your own conclusions, we’ll share what we know,” said Tenkamenin. “I guarantee you, your excursion into the backbrain will be a most eye-opening experience.”