Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(80)

Volta drew in a slow, silent breath. He knew what Goddard was asking of him. But Volta was reluctant. Now he regretted being a part of this at all.

“Maybe you should show your moves on the dance floor, Your Excellency,” said Goddard. “Then my guests could laugh at you, just the way you made the entire Scythedom laugh at me in conclave. Did you think I forgot about that?”

Goddard still reached back toward Volta, now wriggling his fingers impatiently, and Volta had no choice but to give him what he wanted. The young scythe reached into one of the many secret pockets of his yellow robe and pulled out a small dagger, placing the hilt in Goddard’s hand.

Goddard closed his fingers around it, and ever so gently, ever so inconspicuously, brought the edge of the dagger just an inch from Esme’s neck.

The girl didn’t see it. She didn’t know it was there at all. But Xenocrates did. He froze in place, eyes wide, jaw slightly ajar.

“I know!” said Goddard cheerfully. “Why don’t you go for a swim!”

“Please,” begged Xenocrates. “This is not necessary.”

“Oh, but I insist.”

“I don’t think he wants to go swimming,” said Esme.

“But everyone goes swimming at my parties!”

“Don’t do this,” begged the High Blade.

Goddard’s response was to bring the blade even closer to Esme’s unsuspecting neck. Now even Volta was sweating. No one had ever been gleaned at one of Goddard’s parties, but there was always a first time. Volta knew this was a battle of wills, and the only thing that kept him from intervening, and ripping that dagger away from Goddard, was knowing who would blink first.

“Damn you, Goddard!” said Xenocrates. Then he stood up and threw himself into the pool, gold adornments and all.

? ? ?

Rowan heard none of what transpired between Xenocrates and Goddard, but he did see the High Blade hurl himself into the deep end, creating a cannonball splash that drew everyone’s attention.

Xenocrates went down, and didn’t come back up.

“He sank to the bottom!” someone said. “It’s all that gold!”

Rowan had no great love of the High Blade, but he also didn’t want to see the man drown. It wasn’t like he fell; he had jumped, and if he drowned, trapped in his own golden robe, it would be considered a self-gleaning. Rowan dove into the pool, and so did Tyger, following his lead. They swam to the bottom, where Xenocrates was bubbling out his last bit of air. Rowan grabbed the man’s heavy, multilayered robe, tugging it over his head, and both he and Tyger helped the High Blade up to the surface, where he gasped, coughed, and sputtered. The crowd around them applauded.

Now he didn’t look much like a High Blade—he was just a fat man in wet, golden underwear.

“I guess I must have lost my balance,” he said, trying to be jovial about it and attempting to put a new spin on what had happened. Maybe others believed it, but Rowan had seen him throw himself in. There was no confusing that with an accidental fall. Why on earth would he have done that?

“Wait,” said Xenocrates looking at his right hand. “My ring!”

“I’ll get it!” said Tyger, who was now the party boy of the hour, and dove to the bottom to retrieve it.

Chomsky had arrived at the scene, and he and ?Volta reached down from the pool’s edge to haul Xenocrates out of the water. It was as humiliating as could be for the man. He looked like an overstuffed net of fish being hauled onto the deck of a trawler.

Goddard wrapped a large towel around the High Blade, uncharacteristically sheepish. “I truly, truly apologize,” said Goddard. “It never occurred to me that you might actually drown. That wouldn’t have been a good thing for anyone.”

And then Rowan realized there was only one reason for Xenocrates to hurl himself into the pool:

Because Goddard had ordered him to.

Which meant that Goddard had a much stronger hold on the High Blade than anyone knew. But how?

“Can I go now?” asked Esme.

“Of course you can,” said Goddard, giving her a kiss on the forehead. Then Esme wandered off, searching for playmates among the children of the stars.

Tyger surfaced with the ring. Xenocrates grabbed it from him without as much as a thank you, and slipped it on his finger.

“I tried to get his robe, too, but it’s just too heavy,” said Tyger.

“We’ll get someone with scuba gear to go down there on a treasure dive,” quipped Goddard. “Although they may claim salvage rights.”

“Are you quite finished?” said Xenocrates. “Because I want to leave.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

Then the High Blade of MidMerica left the pool deck and went back through the house dripping wet, leaving behind whatever dignity he had arrived with.

“Damn—I should have kissed his ring when I had the chance,” Tyger lamented. “Immunity right there in my hands, and I blew it.”

Once Xenocrates was gone, Goddard called out to the crowd, “Anyone who uploads pictures of High Blade Xenocrates in his underwear will be gleaned immediately!”

And everyone laughed . . . then stopped when they realized he was not joking in the least.

? ? ?

As the party wrapped up and Scythe Goddard said good-bye to his most important guests, Rowan watched, taking in everything.