Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(104)
“Ah, you’ve arrived!” said Xenocrates, stepping forward to greet them.
Neither Scythe Curie nor Anastasia was particularly friendly with their former High Blade. Anastasia never quite forgave him for accusing her of killing Scythe Faraday—but the need for diplomacy was greater than her need to hold a personal grudge.
“We didn’t expect you’d greet us personally, Your Exalted Excellency,” said Scythe Curie.
He shook their hands in that hearty, two-handed way he had. “Yes, well, it wouldn’t do to have you visit my offices. It would have the appearance of favoritism in the matter of MidMerican High Blade.”
“But you’re here,” Anastasia pointed out. “Does that mean we have your support for the inquest?”
Xenocrates sighed. “Alas, I have been asked by Supreme Blade Kahlo to recuse myself. She feels I cannot be impartial—and I’m afraid she’s right.” He took a moment to look at Scythe Curie, and for a moment it seemed he had dropped his own personal defenses. He actually seemed honest. “You and I may not have always seen eye to eye, Marie, but there is no question that Goddard would be a disaster. I truly hope your inquest against him is a success—and although I am not allowed to vote, I will be rooting for you.”
Which, Anastasia noted, would be of no use whatsoever. She did not know the other six Grandslayers, only what Scythe Curie had told her. Two were sympathetic to new-order ideals, two were opposed, and two were wild cards. The inquest could go either way.
Anastasia turned away from the other scythes, enamored of the view. It was a pleasant distraction from the moment at hand. It would be nice to be like those fish; to have no concerns beyond survival and blending into the school. Being just a part of the whole, rather than an isolated individual in a world turning hostile.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Xenocrates, coming up beside her. “Endura serves as a huge artificial reef—and the sea life in a twenty-mile radius is infused with nanites that allow us to control them.” He grabbed a tablet off the wall. “Observe.”
He tapped a few times, and the colorful fish cleared away like a parting curtain. In a moment the ocean before them was full of jellyfish, deceptively soothing as they undulated beyond the huge window. “You can change your living view to anything you want.” Xenocrates held the tablet out to her. “Here, try it.”
Anastasia took the tablet, and sent the jellyfish away. Then she found what she was looking for in the menu. A single reef shark approached, then another and another, until the view was full of them. A larger tiger shark punctuated the scene, eying them soullessly through the window as it passed.
“There,” said Anastasia. “A much more accurate view of our current situation.”
Grandslayer Xenocrates was not amused. “No one will ever accuse you of optimism, Miss Terranova,” he said—intentionally using her birth name as a backhanded insult.
He turned away from the shark-filled view. “I will see you both at tomorrow’s inquest. In the meantime, I’ve arranged a private tour of the city for you, and excellent seats for tonight’s opera. Aida, I believe.”
And although neither Anastasia nor Marie were in the state of mind for such things, they did not decline the offer.
“Perhaps a day of pleasant diversions is what we need,” Marie said, after Xenocrates had left. Then she took the tablet from Anastasia and dispersed the predatory view.
? ? ?
After leaving Scythes Anastasia and Curie, His Exalted Excellency, Grandslayer Xenocrates, surveyed his domain from the glass-walled, glass-roofed penthouse suite atop the North Merican tower, which had been bestowed on him upon ascending to Grandslayer status. It was one of seven such residences, each one atop the Grandslayer towers around the central eye of Endura. Within the eye, luxury submarines arrived and departed; water taxies shuttled people about; pleasure craft zigged back and forth. He could see one visiting scythe on a Jet Ski still in his robe, which was not a good idea. The fabric acted like a parasail, lifting him off the back of the Jet Ski and depositing him in the water. Idiot. The scythedom was cursed with idiots. They might have been blessed with wisdom, but common sense was a trait sorely lacking among them.
The sun beamed down on him through the glass roof, and he had his valet try to work the shades. It always seemed that the shade that would actually block the sun was inoperative, and getting a repairman was next to impossible—even for a Grandslayer.
“This is only a recent occurrence,” his valet told him. “Since about the time of your arrival, things just haven’t been working the way they should.” As if somehow this plague of functional failure were Xenocrates’s fault.
He inherited his valet from Grandslayer Hemingway. Only the scythes in Hemingway’s employ were required to self-glean along with him, but the service staff remained. It provided a sense of continuity—although Xenocrates suspected he’d eventually replace all of them, so that he didn’t have to feel they were always comparing him to their former employer.
“I find it ridiculous that the roof of this residence must also be made of glass,” Xenocrates commented, not for the first time. “I feel as if I am on display for every passing aircraft and jetpacker.”
“Yes, but the crystalline appearance of the tower pinnacles is beautiful, isn’t it?”
Xenocrates harrumphed at that. “Isn’t form supposed to follow function?”