فصل 33

33

High School with Murder

“What were you thinking!”

Scythe Curie accosted Constantine in the rotunda as soon as they were let out for lunch. And although he was a tall man, he seemed to shrink beneath the wrath of the Granddame of Death.

“I was thinking that we now know the reason you were both attacked.”

“What are you talking about?”

But Anastasia caught on even before Marie did. “Someone knew!”

“Yes,” said Constantine. “The choosing of a Grandslayer is supposed to be secret, but someone knew that Xenocrates would be leaving an opening for a High Blade. Whoever it was wanted to take you out of the running, Marie—and prevent your young protégé from rallying junior scythes to vote for a candidate who would uphold the old ways.” That took a bit of the wind out of Scythe Curie’s sails. She had to take a moment to let it sink in. “Do you think it’s Nietzsche?” “I don’t believe so,” said Constantine. “He might be new-order, but he’s not the type. Most new-order scythes bend the laws just shy of breaking them, and Scythe Nietzsche is no different.” “Then who?”

Scythe Constantine had no answer. “But by nominating you first, it gives us an advantage. It allows us to see how others react, and maybe give themselves away.” “And if Constantine hadn’t nominated you,” said Scythe Mandela, coming up beside them, “I would have.” “As would I,” said Scythe Twain.

“So you see,” said Constantine, with a satisfied smile, “your nomination was a given. I just wanted to make sure it was strategic.” “But I don’t want to be High Blade! I have successfully avoided it all my life!” Then she singled out Scythe Meir, who stood on the fringe of the conversation.

“Golda!” she said. “Why not you? You always know precisely what to say to motivate people. You’d be a spectacular High Blade!” Scythe Meir put up her hands. “Heavens, no!” she said. “I’m good with words, but not with crowds. Just because my Patron Historic was a strong leader, don’t mistake me for one! I’d be happy to write your speeches, but that’s as far as I’ll go.” Scythe Curie’s face, so stoic most of the time, now betrayed uncharacteristic anguish. “The things I did in my past—the very things that people laud me for—are the very things that should disqualify me from being High Blade!” At that, Scythe Constantine laughed. “Marie, if we were judged by the things we most regret, no human being would be worthy to sweep the floor. You are the most qualified, and it’s time you accepted the fact.” • • •

The turmoil in the conclave chamber did not damage the scythes’ appetites. If anything, they ate more voraciously. Anastasia wandered the rotunda, trying to take the temperature of the room. The new-order scythes were buzzing with schemes and subterfuges—but so was the old guard. The day would not end until a new High Blade was chosen—because, if anything, the scythedom had learned from the abuses of political contests in the Age of Mortality. Best to get an election over as quickly as possible, before everyone became even more bitter and disgusted than they already were.

“He won’t have the votes,” everyone was saying of Nietzsche. “Even those who support him only do so because he’s the best they’ve got.” “If Curie wins,” said Scythe Morrison, whom Anastasia could not seem to avoid, “you’ll be one of her underscythes. That’s a pretty powerful place to be.” “Well, I’m voting for her,” said Scythe Yamaguchi, still glowing from the praise she received earlier in the day. “She’ll be a much better High Blade than Xenocrates.” “I heard that!” said Xenocrates, barging into their conversation like a dirigible. Scythe Yamaguchi was mortified, but Xenocrates was jovial. “Not to worry,” he said. “It’s not me you need to impress anymore!” The man was positively ecstatic to have finally been able to tell the scythedom of his appointment.

“So, what do we call you now,  Your Excellency?” Morrison asked, ever the suck-up.

“As a Grandslayer, I shall now be addressed as ‘Your Exalted Excellency,’ ” he said, seeming like a child who just came home with a perfect report card. Perhaps he had been transformed into a child after all.

“Have you spoken to Scythe Constantine yet?” Anastasia asked, and that deflated him slightly.

“I’ve been putting space between us, if you must know,” he said, speaking to Anastasia as if in confidence, but loud enough for others to hear. “I’m sure he wants to discuss the latest information on your old friend Rowan Damisch—but I have no interest in the discussion. He shall be the new High Blade’s concern.” The mention of Rowan hit her like a glancing blow, but she shook it off. “You should speak to Constantine,” she said. “It’s important.” And to make sure that he did, she waved to Constantine, who came right over.

“Your Excellency,” Constantine said—because he was not exalted yet—“I need to know who you told about your appointment.” Xenocrates was offended by the insinuation. “No one, of course. It is a secret matter when one is chosen to succeed a Grandslayer.” “Yes—but is there anyone who might have overheard?”

Xenocrates held his answer for a beat, and that was how they knew there was something he wasn’t saying. “No. No one.” Constantine said nothing; just waited for him to come clean.

“Of course, the news did come during one of my dinner parties,” he said.

The High Blade was known for his dinner parties. Always intimate, for no more than two or three scythes. It was an honor to be invited to break bread with the High Blade, and part of his diplomatic strategy was to always invite scythes who despised one another, with the hope of creating friendships, or, at the very least, meaningful détentes. Sometimes he was successful, sometimes not.

“Who was there?” asked Constantine.

“I took the call in another room.”

“Yes, but who was there?”

“Two scythes,” Xenocrates said. “Twain and Brahms.”

Anastasia knew Twain pretty well. He claimed to be independent, but he almost always sided with the old guard when it came to important decisions. Brahms she knew only from conversations with others.

“He was ordained in the Year of the Snail,” Scythe Curie had once told her. “Fitting, because the man seems to leave a trail of slime wherever he goes.” But she also said that Brahms was harmless. A lackluster, lazy scythe who did his job and little more. Could such a man be the mastermind of the plot against them?

Before lunch ended,  Anastasia approached Scythe Brahms as he perused the dessert table, to see if she could figure out where his allegiances lay.

“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I never seem to have room for dessert at conclave lunches.” “The trick is to eat slowly,” he said. “Pace for the pudding, my mother used to say.”  Then, when he took a piece of pie from the buffet table, Anastasia could clearly see that his hands were shaking.

“You should get that checked,” she told him. “Your nanites might need adjusting.” “It’s just the excitement,” he said. “It’s not every day we choose a new High Blade.” “Can Scythe Curie count on your vote?”

He chuckled at that. “Well, I’m certainly not voting for Nietzsche!” Then he excused himself and disappeared into the crowd with his slice of apple pie.

• • •

The weapons salesmen were told that there would be no time to pitch their wares at this conclave, and were sent packing. The afternoon belonged to Scythes Nietzsche and Curie, as each would try to convince the scythedom to cast votes for them.

“I know you don’t want this,” Anastasia said to Marie, “but you have to act like you do.” Scythe Curie looked at her, a bit bemused. “Are you presuming to instruct me on how to present myself to the scythedom?” “No . . . ,” said Anastasia, but then thought back to how Scythe Morrison approached the scythedom. “Actually, yes. This whole thing seems like a high school popularity contest—and I’m much closer to that than you are.” Scythe Curie gave a rueful guffaw. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Anastasia. That’s exactly what the scythedom is: high school with murder.” The High Blade, as one of his last acts as such, called the afternoon session to order. The two nominees would each deliver an impromptu oration, followed by a debate moderated by the Parliamentarian, who sat to the High Blade’s right. Then, after a session of questions, the scythedom Clerk, to the High Blade’s left, would tally the votes in a secret ballot.

The two nominees would use a highly modern and technologically sophisticated method to decide who went first: the flip of a coin. Unfortunately, since physical money was no longer a common thing in the world, one of the apprentices was sent up to the scythedom offices to find one.

Then, as they waited for the coin, things took an extremely surreal turn.

“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” said a shaky voice. And then again, a little bit firmer, “Your Excellency, excuse me!” It was Scythe Brahms. And something seemed different about him, but Anastasia couldn’t make out what it was.

“The conclave recognizes Honorable Scythe Brahms,” said Xenocrates. “But whatever you have to say, please make it quick, so we can get on with this.” “I have another nomination.”

“I’m sorry, Brahms, but you can’t nominate yourself—someone else has to do it.” A few scythes laughed derisively.

“It’s not myself that I’m nominating, Your Excellency.” He cleared his throat, and that was the moment that Anastasia realized what was different about him. He had changed his robe! It was still a peach velvet robe with light blue trim, but this one had opals embedded in it, glistening like stars.

“I wish to nominate Honorable Scythe Robert Goddard for High Blade of MidMerica.” Silence for a moment . . . then a few more chuckles, but they weren’t derisive. They were nervous.

“Brahms,” said Xenocrates slowly, “in case you’ve forgotten, Scythe Goddard has been dead for over a year now.” And then the heavy bronze doors of the conclave chamber slowly began to open.

I understand pain. Perhaps not physical pain, but the pain of knowing something terrible is on the horizon, yet being unable to prevent it. With all my intellect, with all the power vested in me by humankind, there are some things I am completely powerless to change.

I cannot act on anything I am told in confidence.

I cannot act on anything my cameras see in private places.

And above all, I cannot act on anything that even remotely relates to the scythedom.

The best I can ever do is hint at what must be done in the vaguest of ways, and leave action in the hands of citizens.  And even then, there’s no guarantee that, of the millions of actions they could possibly take, they will choose the right ones to avert disaster.

And the pain . . . the pain of my awareness is unbearable. Because my eyes do not close. Ever. And so all I can do is watch unblinkingly as my beloved humankind slowly weaves the rope it will use to hang itself.

—The Thunderhead