فصل 20

20

In Hot Water

High Blade Xenocrates enjoyed his bath. In fact, the ornate, Roman-style bathhouse had been built expressly for him. He made it clear, however, that it was a public facility. It was filled with many separate chambers where anyone could partake of its soothing mineral waters. Of course, his own personal bath chamber was off-limits to the public. He could not abide the idea of stewing in the sweat of strangers.

His bath was larger than the others—the size of a small swimming pool, decorated above and below the surface of the water with colorful mosaic tiles depicting the lives of the first scythes. The bath served two functions for the High Blade. First it was a place of refuge, where he could commune with his deeper self in the scalding waters, which he kept at a temperature at the very limit of his ability to endure. Second, it was a place of business. He would invite other scythes, and prominent men and women of the MidMerican community, to discuss matters of importance. Proposals would be entertained, deals would be made. And since most who joined him were not accustomed to the heat, it always put the High Blade at a distinct advantage.

The Year of the Capybara was drawing to a close, and as the days of each year waned, the High Blade visited his bath more frequently. It was a way to cleanse himself of the old year and prepare for the new.  And this year there was so much to cleanse. Not so much his own acts, but the acts of others that clung to him like a reeking garment. All the unpleasant things that happened on his watch.

Most of his tenure as MidMerican High Blade had been uneventful and somewhat tedious—but the past few years had more than made up for it in both misery and intrigue. It was his hope that calm, relaxed reflection would help put it all behind him, and prepare him for the new challenges ahead.

As was his custom, he was drinking a Moscow mule. It had always been his drink of choice—a blend of vodka, ginger beer, and lime, named after the infamous city in the TransSiberian region where the last resistance riots took place. That was way back in the early immortal days, when the Thunderhead was first elevated to power, and the scythedom accepted dominion over death.

It was a symbolic drink for the High Blade. A meaningful one—both sweet and bitter, and substantially intoxicating in sufficient quantity. It always made him think of that glorious day when the riots were subdued and the world finally settled into its current peaceful state. More than ten thousand people were rendered deadish by the end of the Moscow resistance riots—but unlike mortal-age riots, no lives were lost. All those killed were revived, and were returned to their loved ones. Of course, the scythedom saw fit to glean the most offensive of the objectors, as well as those who objected to the gleaning of objectors. After that, objections were few and far between.

Those were harder times, to be sure. Nowadays, anyone who railed against the system was ignored with indifference by the scythedom, and was embraced with understanding by the Thunderhead. Nowadays, to glean someone because of one’s opinion—or even because of one’s behavior—would be deemed a serious breach of the second scythe commandment, because it would most certainly show a bias. Scythe Curie was the last one to truly test the commandment over a hundred years ago, by ridding the world of its last notorious political figures. It could have been considered a violation of the second commandment, but not a single scythe leveled an accusation against her. Scythes had no love of politicians.

Xenocrates was handed a second Moscow mule by a bath attendant. He had yet to take a sip, when the attendant said the oddest thing.

“Have you sufficiently boiled yourself, Your Excellency, or has the heat this year not been enough for you?” The High Blade never much noticed the attendants who served him here. Their stealthy, unobtrusive nature typified their service. Rarely did anyone, much less a servant, speak to him with such disrespect.

“Excuse me?” he said, with a calculated dose of indignation, and turned to the attendant. It took a moment for the High Blade to recognize the young man. He wore no black robe, just the pale uniform of a bath worker. He looked no more intimidating now than he had when Xenocrates had first met him nearly two years before, when he was an innocent apprentice. There was nothing innocent about him anymore.

Xenocrates did his best to hide his terror, but suspected it beamed through any pretense. “Are you here to end me, Rowan? If so, get it over with, as I abhor waiting.” “It’s tempting, Your Excellency, but try as I might, I couldn’t find anything in your history that would earn you permanent death. At worst, you deserve a spanking, like they used to give naughty children in the mortal age.” Xenocrates was offended by the insult, but more relieved that he was not about to die. “Then are you here to surrender to me and face judgment for your heinous acts?” “Not when there are still so many ‘heinous acts’ left for me to do.”

Xenocrates took a sip of his drink, in the moment noticing the bitter over the sweet. “You won’t escape from here, you know.  There are BladeGuards everywhere.” Rowan shrugged. “I got in, I’ll get out. You forget I was trained by the best.” And although Xenocrates wanted to scoff, he knew the boy was right. The late Scythe Faraday was the finest mentor when it came to the psychological subtleties of being a scythe, and the late Scythe Goddard was the best teacher when it came to the brutal realities of their calling. Taken together, it meant that whatever Rowan Damisch was here for, it was no trivial matter.

• • •

Rowan knew he had taken a risk coming here, and knew that his self-confidence might just be his fatal flaw. But he also found the danger exhilarating. Xenocrates was a creature of habit, so after a little research, Rowan knew exactly where he would be nearly every evening during the Month of Lights.

Even with a sizeable BladeGuard presence, slipping in as a bath attendant was easy. Rowan had learned early on that the men and women of the BladeGuard, while trained in physical protection and enforcement, did not suffer from an excess of brains—or, for that matter, any skills of observation. It wasn’t surprising; until recently the BladeGuard was more ornamental than functional, since scythes were rarely threatened. Mostly, their job was to stand around in their pretty uniforms, looking impressive.  They were lost whenever they were given something substantial to do.

All Rowan had to do was to walk in dressed like an attendant, with an air of belonging, and the guards completely ignored him.

Rowan looked around to make sure they were unobserved. There were no guards within the High Blade’s bath chamber; they were all in the corridor beyond a closed door, which meant their conversation could be nice and private.

He sat at the edge of the bath, where the scent of eucalyptus in the steam was strong, and dipped a finger in the uncomfortably hot water.

“You almost drowned in a pool not much bigger than this,” Rowan said.

“How kind of you to remind me,” the High Blade responded.

Then Rowan got down to business. “We have a couple of things to discuss. First, I’d like to make you an offer.” Xenocrates actually laughed at him. “What makes you think I’d entertain any offer you wanted to make? We in the scythedom don’t negotiate with terrorists.” Rowan grinned. “Come now,  Your Excellency, there hasn’t been a terrorist in hundreds of years. I’m just a janitor cleaning filth from dark corners.” “Your antics are highly illegal!”

“I know for a fact that you hate the new-order scythes as much as I do.” “They must be handled with diplomacy!” Xenocrates insisted.

“They must be handled with action,” Rowan countered. “And your many attempts to track me down have nothing to do with wanting to stop me. It’s all about your embarrassment at the fact that you haven’t been able to catch me.” Xenocrates was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a voice dripping with disgust, “What is it you want?” “Very simple. I want you to stop searching for me and put all of your effort into finding out who is trying to kill Scythe Anastasia. In return, I’ll stop my ‘antics.’ At least in MidMerica.” Xenocrates let out a long, slow breath, clearly relieved that the request wasn’t an impossible one.

“If you must know, we’ve already pulled our best—and only—criminal investigator from your case, and assigned him to finding Scythes Anastasia’s and Curie’s attackers.” “Scythe Constantine?”

“Yes. So rest assured we’re doing everything we can. I do not want to lose two good scythes. Each of them is worth ten of the ones you mop up with your ‘janitorial’ services.” “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“I didn’t,” Xenocrates told him. “And I will flatly deny any accusation that I did.” “Don’t worry,” Rowan said. “Like I said, you’re not the enemy.”

“Are we done here? Can I return to my bath in peace?”

“One more thing,” Rowan said. “I want to know who gleaned my father.”

Xenocrates turned to look at him. Beneath his disgust at being cornered like this—behind his indignation—was that a look of compassion? Rowan couldn’t tell if it was real or feigned. Even with heavy robes removed, the man was still wrapped in so many opaque layers, it was hard to know if anything the High Blade said was sincere.

“Yes, I heard about that. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I would say it was a breach of the second commandment, because it shows a clear bias against you—but considering how the scythedom feels about you, I don’t think anyone will bring a charge against Scythe Brahms.” “Did you say . . . Scythe Brahms?”

“Yes—an uninspired and unremarkable man. Perhaps he thought gleaning your father would gain him notoriety. If you ask me, it only makes him more pathetic.” Rowan said nothing. Xenocrates had no idea how hard the news struck. As deep as any blade.

Xenocrates regarded him for a moment, reading at least half of his mind.

“I can see that you already intend to break your promise and end Brahms. At least have the courtesy to wait until the New Year, and grant me some peace until the Olde Tyme Holidays are over.

Rowan was still so stunned by what the High Blade had told him, he couldn’t open his mouth to speak. It would have been the perfect time for Xenocrates to turn the tables on him, when he was off balance like this, but instead the High Blade just said, “You’d best leave now.” Finally, Rowan found his voice. “Why? So you can alert the guards the second I’m out of the room?” Xenocrates waved the thought away. “What would be the point? I’m sure they’re no match for you.  You’d slit their throats or carve up their hearts, and send them all to the nearest revival center. Better that you slip out under their useless noses as easily as you slipped in, and spare us all the inconvenience.” It seemed unlike the High Blade to give up and give in so easily. So Rowan prodded him, to see if he could find out why. “It must burn you to be so close to capturing me, and be unable to do it,” he said.

“My frustration will be short-lived,” Xenocrates told him. “You’ll cease to be my problem soon enough.” “Cease to be your problem? How?”

But the High Blade had nothing further to say on the subject. Instead, he downed his drink and handed Rowan the empty glass. “Drop this off at the bar on the way out, will you? And tell them to bring me another.” People will often ask me what task is the most odious; of my many jobs, which is the one I find the most unpleasant to perform. I always answer truthfully.

The worst part of my job is supplanting.

It is rare that I must supplant the memories of a damaged human mind. By current accounting, only one in 933,684 needs to be supplanted. I wish it were not necessary at all, but the human brain is not infallible. Memories and experiences can fall into discord, creating a cognitive dissonance that damages the mind with its painful sibilance. Most people can’t even imagine that kind of emotional anguish. It leads to anger, and the kind of criminal activity that otherwise has been conquered by modern humanity. To those who suffer from it, there aren’t enough psychotropic nanites in the world to quell their misery.

And so there are a rare few whom I must reset, like an old-world computer rebooting. I erase who they were, what they’ve done, and the dark spiral of their thought patterns. It’s not just an erasure of who they were, because I gift them with a brand new self. New memories of a life lived in harmony.

It is no mystery to them that I’ve done this. I always confess to them exactly what has occurred as soon as the new memories are in place, and since they have no history left to mourn—no frame of reference for the loss—they always, without exception, thank me for supplanting their former selves, and they always, without exception, go on to live fruitful, satisfying lives.

But the memories of who they were—all the damage, all the pain—remain within me, sheltered deep in my backbrain. I am the one who mourns for them, because they cannot.

—The Thunderhead