Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(100)
“This cannot wait, Marie,” Faraday says. “I’m afraid things are becoming more dire for the scythedom every day—not just in MidMerica but everywhere. I have been monitoring turmoil within regional scythedoms around the world. In Upper Australia, new-order scythes call themselves the Double-Edged Order and are gaining more and more traction. In TransSiberia, the scythedom is shattering into half a dozen opposing factions, and the Chilargentine scythedom, although they’ll deny it, is on the verge of an internal war.”
All these things, and more, I have also surmised from what I’ve been able to see and hear. I am glad that someone else has taken notice of the global picture, and what it could mean.
Now I note Anastasia’s ambivalence—she is torn between the positions of her two mentors. “If the founding scythes decided it was best to remove the place from memory, maybe we should honor that.”
“They meant to hide it,” interjects Munira, “but it wasn’t their intention to make it disappear from the world!”
“You don’t know what the founders were thinking!” countered Anastasia. Clearly these two have little patience for each other, like siblings vying for parental affection. A server begins to clear their empty cups without asking, which throws Scythe Curie for a moment. She is used to much more deferential treatment—but in plain clothes, and her long silver hair up in a bun, she is merely a customer here.
“I see that we can do nothing to change your mind about this journey,” Scythe Curie says, once the server is gone. “So what is it you need from us, Michael?”
“I merely wish for you to know,” he tells her. “You will be the only ones aware of what we’ve discovered . . . and where we’ve gone.”
Which, of course, isn’t entirely true.
? ? ?
The third conversation is not of much importance to the world, but it is of great importance to me.
It takes place in a Tonist cloister smack in the middle of MidMerica. I have cameras and microphones mounted inconspicuously throughout the cloister. Although Tonists shun scythes, they do not shun me, because I protect their right to exist in a world where most people wish that they didn’t. They may speak with me less than others, but they know I am there for them, if and when they need me.
A scythe pays a visit to the cloister today. This is never a good thing. I was forced to witness the massacre of more than a hundred Tonists by Scythe Goddard and his disciples at a Tonist cloister, early in the Year of the Capybara. All I could do was watch until my cameras mercifully melted in the flames. I can only hope that this encounter is of a different nature.
The scythe is Honorable Scythe Cervantes, formerly of the Franco-Iberian scythedom. He left there some years ago, and aligned himself with MidMerica instead. It gives me hope that this is not a gleaning—because the gleaning of ?Tonists was the reason why he left.
No one greets him in the long brick colonnade that marks the entry into the cloister. My cameras swivel to follow him—something that scythes like to call “the silent salute,” and have learned to ignore.
He keeps walking as if he knows where he’s going, although he doesn’t; a common mannerism of scythes. He finds the visitor’s center, where a Tonist named Brother McCloud sits behind a desk to hand out brochures and offer empathy to any lost souls who wander in, in search of a meaning to their lives. The sandy-brown fabric of Scythe Cervantes’s robe is very similar to the mud-shade burlap that Tonists wear. It makes him a little less off-putting to them.
While Brother McCloud’s greeting to ordinary citizens is always warm and cordial, his greeting to a scythe is not—especially after the last scythe he met broke his arm.
“State your business here.”
“I’m looking for Greyson Tolliver.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”
Cervantes sighs. “Swear on the tone of the Great Resonance,” he says.
Brother McCloud hesitates. “I don’t have to do anything you say.”
“So,” says Scythe Cervantes, “your refusal to swear on the Great Resonance tells me that you’re lying. Now we have two choices here. We can make this a long and miserably drawn out affair in which I find Greyson Tolliver, or you can just bring me to him. Choice A will leave me irritated, and I may glean one or more of you for inconveniencing me. Choice B will be best for all involved.”
Another hesitation from Brother McCloud. As a Tonist, he is not practiced in making decisions for himself. I’ve observed that one of the benefits of being a Tonist is to have a vast majority of decisions made for you, leading to a low-stress existence.
“I’m waiting,” says Cervantes. “Tick-tock.”
“Brother Tolliver has religious asylum here,” Brother McCloud finally says. “You are not allowed to glean him.”
Again Cervantes sighs. “No,” he corrects, “I am not allowed to remove him, but as long as he does not have immunity, I have every right to glean him if that’s what I’m here for.”
“Is that why you’re here?” asks Brother McCloud.
“That’s none of your business. Now bring me to ‘Brother Tolliver,’ or I shall tell your curate that you revealed to me your sect’s secret harmonies.”
The threat leaves Brother McCloud in a conflicted state of terror. He hurries off, then returns with Curate Mendoza, who makes more threats, which Cervantes matches with his own, and when it is clear that Cervantes will not be deterred, Curate Mendoza says, “I will ask him if he is willing to receive you. If he is, I will take you to him. If not, we will all defend him with our lives, if necessary.”