Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(105)

“Not in the scythedom,” replied his valet.

So now Xenocrates had reached the shining peak of the world. The culmination of all his life’s ambitions. Yet even now, he found himself projecting his next success. Someday, he would be Supreme Blade. Even if he had to wait for all the other Grandslayers to self-glean.

There was, even in this new elevated position, a sense of humility he had not expected. He had gone from being the most powerful scythe in MidMerica to being the junior-most scythe on the World Council—and although the other six Grandslayers had approved him for the position, it didn’t mean they were ready to treat him as an equal. Even at this high level, there were dues to pay, respect to earn.

For instance, upon his confirmation, just one day after Scythe Hemingway and his underscythes had self-gleaned, Supreme Blade Kahlo had made an offhand remark to Xenocrates in front of all the other Grandslayers.

“So much heavy fabric must be an encumbrance,” she said of his robe. “Especially here in the horse latitudes.” Then she added, without so much as a grin. “You should find a way to shed some of it.”

Of course, she was not referring to a lighter fabric, but to the fact that it took so much of it to clothe him. He had gone beet-red at the comment, and when he did, the Supreme Blade laughed.

“You look downright cherubic, Xenocrates,” she said.

That evening, he had a wellness technician adjust his nanites to substantially speed up his metabolism. As High Blade of MidMerica, maintaining an impressive weight was intentional. He was imposing, and it added to the impression of him being larger than life. But here, among the Grandslayers, he felt like an overweight child chosen last for a sports team.

“With your metabolism dialed to maximum, it will take you six to nine months to reach your optimal weight,” the wellness tech had told him. It was much longer than he had patience for, but he had little choice in the matter. Well, at least he didn’t have to curb his appetite and exercise, as they had to do in mortal days.

As he pondered his slowly shrinking belly and the follies of the vacationing scythes below, his valet returned, looking a bit unsettled.

“Excuse me, Your Exalted Excellency,” he said. “You have a visitor.”

“Is it anyone I want to see?”

The valet’s Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably. “It’s Scythe Goddard.”

Which was absolutely the last person he wanted to see. “Tell him I’m busy.”

But even before the valet could leave to deliver the message, Goddard barged in. “Your Exalted Excellency!” he said jovially. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“You have,” Xenocrates said. “But you’re already here, so there’s nothing I can do about it.” He dismissed his valet with a wave of his hand, resigned that this encounter could not be sidestepped. What was it the Tonists said? That which comes cannot be avoided.

“I’ve never seen a Grandslayer’s suite,” Goddard said, strolling about the living room, examining everything from the furniture to the artwork. “It’s inspiring!”

Xenocrates wasted no time with small talk. “I wish you to know that the moment you resurfaced, I made sure that Esme and her mother were hidden away in a place you’ll never find them—so if it is your aim to use them against me, it won’t work.”

“Ah yes, Esme,” said Goddard, as if thinking about her for the first time in ages. “How is your darling daughter? Growing like a weed, I imagine. Or more like a shrub. I do so miss her!”

“Why are you here?” demanded Xenocrates, annoyed at Goddard’s presence, and the blasted sunlight that kept shining into his eyes, and the air conditioner that could not find a consistent temperature.

“Just to be given equal time, ?Your Exalted Excellency,” Goddard said. “I know that you met with Scythe Curie this morning. It could seem biased to meet with her and not with me.”

“It would seem biased because it is,” Xenocrates said. “I don’t approve of your ideas, or your actions, Goddard. I will not keep that a secret anymore.”

“And yet you recused yourself from tomorrow’s inquest.”

Xenocrates sighed. “Because the Supreme Blade asked me to. Now I will ask you again, why are you here?”

And once more, Goddard indulged himself in yet another beat around the bush. “I merely wished to pay my respects to you and apologize for past indiscretions, so that we may have a clean slate between us.” Then he spread his arms palms up in a beatific gesture, to indicate his new body. ?“As you can see, I’m a changed man. ?And if I become High Blade of MidMerica, it will be in both our interests to have a good relationship.”

Then Goddard stood at the great curved window, just as Xenocrates had done a few moments before, looking down at the view, as if it might be his one day.

“I wish to know how the winds are blowing in the council,” he said.

“Haven’t you heard?” mocked Xenocrates. “There are no winds at these latitudes.”

Goddard ignored him. “I know that Supreme Blade Kahlo and Grandslayer Cromwell do not support the ideals of new-order scythes, but Grandslayers Hideyoshi and Amundsen do. . . .”

“If you already know that, then why are you asking me?”

“Because Grandslayers Nzinga and MacKillop have not expressed an opinion either way. It is my hope that you could appeal to them.”