Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(103)

But even more impressive was a series of seven identical towers, evenly spaced around the island’s central eye. One for each of the Grandslayers of the World Scythe Council, their underscythes, and their extensive staffs. The scythedom’s seat of power was a web of bureaucracy, like the Authority Interface, without the benefit of the Thunderhead to make it run smoothly—which meant it made policy at a snail’s pace, and had many months of backlogged items on its docket. Only the most urgent business was moved to the top of the list—business such as the inquest over the MidMerican election. It puffed Anastasia up a bit to know that she had created a brouhaha big enough to demand the immediate attention of the World Scythe Council. And for the council, a three-month wait was like the speed of light.

“Endura is open to all scythes and their guests,” Scythe Curie told her. “Your family could even live here, if you wanted.”

Anastasia tried to imagine her parents and Ben in a city of scythes, and it made her brain hurt.

Upon landing, they were met by Scythe Seneca—Xenocrates’s first underscythe, whose drab maroon robe clashed with the brighter surroundings. Anastasia wondered how many MidMerican scythes Xenocrates had brought with him. His three underscythes were a given. If he took too many, there would be a huge need for apprentices—and that could mean an influx of more new-order scythes.

“Welcome to the Island of the Enduring Heart,” Seneca said, with his usual lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll take you to your hotel.”

Like the rest of the island, the hotel was a state-of-the art affair, with polished green malachite floors, a towering crystalline atrium, and a huge service staff to meet their every need.

“It almost reminds me of the Emerald City,” Anastasia commented, recalling a mortal-age children’s tale.

“Yes,” said Scythe Curie, with a mischievous grin. “And I once did have my eyes dyed to match my robe.”

Seneca had them bypass reception, where an impatient line of vacationing scythes had formed, and an irritated scythe in a robe of white feathers raged against the incompetence of the staff for apparently not meeting all his needs fast enough. Some scythes didn’t enjoy not being the immediate center of attention.

“This way,” said Seneca. “I’ll send a bellhop for your bags.”

It was here that Anastasia noticed something that had been on the edge of her perception since she had arrived. It was actually brought to her attention by a small child waiting with his family at the elevator.

He pointed to one of the elevator doors, and turned to his mother. “What does ‘out of order’ mean?”

“It means that the elevator doesn’t work.”

But the boy couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept. “How can an elevator not work?”

His mother had no answer, so gave him a snack instead, which distracted him.

Now Anastasia thought back to their arrival. How their flight had to circle several times before landing—something to do with the air traffic control system. And she had noticed a scrape on the side of a publicar just outside of the terminal. She had never seen such a thing before. And the line at reception. She had heard one of the clerks saying that their registration computer “is having issues.” How does a computer have issues? In the world that Anastasia knew, things simply worked. The Thunderhead made sure of it. Nothing ever had an “out of order” sign, because the instant something ceased to function, a team was sent to repair it. Nothing was ever out of order long enough to need a sign.

“What scythe are you?” asked the little boy, but with his accent, it sounded like “sath.” Anastasia pegged him as from the Texas region, although some southern parts of EastMerica had that friendly drawl.

“I’m Scythe Anastasia.”

“My uncle’s the Honorable Sath Howard Hughes,” he announced. “So we got immunity! He’s here givin’ a symphonium on how to properly glean with a bowie naff.”

“Symposium,” his mother corrected quietly.

“I’ve only used a bowie knife once,” Anastasia told him.

“You should do it more often,” said the boy. “They’re double-edged at the tip. Very efficient.”

“Yes,” agreed Scythe Curie. “At least more efficient than these elevators.”

The boy began to swipe his hand through the air as if he were wielding the knife. “I wanna be a sath one day!” he said, which ensured that he never would be. Unless, that is, the new-order scythes gained control of his region.

An elevator arrived, and Anastasia made a move to enter, but Scythe Seneca stopped her.

“That one’s going up,” he said, flatly.

“We’re not going up?”

“Obviously not.”

She looked to Scythe Curie, who didn’t seem at all surprised.

“So they’re putting us in the basement?”

Scythe Seneca scoffed at the suggestion, and didn’t dignify it with a response.

“You forget we’re on a floating island,” Scythe Curie pointed out. “A full third of the city is below the waterline.”

Their suite was on sublevel seven, and featured a floor-to-ceiling picture window filled with brightly colored tropical fish darting about. It was a stunning view that was partially blocked by a figure standing in front of it.