Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(120)

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The business of the scythedom is no business of mine . . . and yet my attention turns to Endura. Even with only distant eyes watching from twenty miles away, I know there is something dangerously amiss on the great manmade island. Because what I don’t see I can read between the lines.

I know that what happens there today will have a profound effect on the scythedom, and therefore on the rest of the world.

I know there is something very troubling that brews beneath the surface, and those who dwell on Endura are completely unaware.

I know that a scythe beloved to me has taken a stand today against another scythe consumed by his own ambition.

And I know that ambition, time and time again, has crumbled civilizations.

The business of the scythedom is no business of mine. And yet, I fear for it. I fear for her. I fear for Citra.

—The Thunderhead



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45


Fail


Endura was designed with a series of failsafes and redundancies, should any of its systems malfunction. Throughout the years, the backup systems had proved very effective. There was no reason to think that the current barrage of snafus would not be resolved, given enough time and effort. Lately, most problems resolved themselves, vanishing as mysteriously as they had appeared—so when a little red light went on in the buoyancy control room, indicating an inconsistency in one of the island’s ballast tanks, the technician on duty decided to finish his lunch before investigating. He figured the little red light would go away on its own in a minute or two. When it didn’t, he gave an irritated sigh, picked up the phone, and called his superior.

? ? ?

Anastasia found her unease didn’t lessen as they crossed one of the footbridges from the council complex. They had won the inquest. Goddard was now relegated to a year of apprenticeship, and Scythe Curie would ascend to be High Blade. So why was she so unsettled?

“There’s so much to do, I don’t even know where to start,” Marie said. “We’ll need to return to Fulcrum City immediately. I suppose I’ll have to find a permanent residence there.”

Anastasia didn’t respond, because she knew Marie was mostly talking to herself. She wondered what it would be like being third underscythe to a High Blade. Xenocrates had used his underscythes to go out into the field and deal with issues in the more remote areas of MidMerica. They were next to invisible at conclave, as Xenocrates was not the kind of scythe who hid behind an entourage. Neither was Scythe Curie, but Anastasia suspected that Marie would keep her underscythes closer, and more involved in the day-to-day affairs of the scythedom.

As they neared their hotel, Scythe Curie got a bit ahead of Anastasia, lost in plans and projections for her new life. That was when Anastasia noticed a scythe in a distressed leather robe walking beside her.

“Don’t act surprised, just keep walking,” said Rowan from beneath a hood that was pulled low over his face.

? ? ?

In the council chamber, the Grandslayers had called for pages to hold parasols above their heads through the rest of the days’ proceedings. It was awkward but necessary, because the midday sun had grown increasingly hot. Rather than cancel the day—which would just increase the backlog on the council’s docket—the Grandslayers chose to soldier on.

Below the council chamber, there were three levels of anterooms where those scheduled for an audience with the council awaited their turn. On the lowest level, an Australian scythe was here to plead for permanent immunity for anyone with Aboriginal ancestry within their genetic index. His cause was honorable, and he hoped the council would agree. As he waited, however, he noticed that the floor had become wet. He didn’t think it to be a reason for concern. Not at first.

? ? ?

Meanwhile, in Buoyancy Control, three technicians now puzzled over the problem before them. It appeared that a valve in the ballast tank beneath the council chamber complex was in the open position, and filling with water. This was not unusual in and of itself—the entire underside of the island was engineered with hundreds of massive tanks that could take on water or blow that water out to keep the island floating at the perfect depth. Too low, and its gardens would flood with sea water. Too high, and its beaches would rise completely out of the sea. The ballast tanks were on a timer, raising and lowering the island a few feet twice daily to simulate the tides. But they had to be perfectly coordinated—and especially the ballast tank beneath the council chamber complex, because it was an island within the island. If the council chamber rose too high or dropped too low, the three bridges connecting it to the island around it would be strained. And right now, the valve was stuck.

“So what should we do?” the technician on duty asked his supervisor.

The supervisor didn’t answer—instead, he deferred to his supervisor, who, in turn, seemed to have little understanding of the blinking red messages flying at them on the control screen. “How fast is the tank filling?” he asked.

“Fast enough for the council chamber to have already dropped a meter deeper,” the first technician said.

The supervisor’s supervisor grimaced. The Grandslayers would be furious if they were stopped in the middle of a session because of something as stupid as a jammed ballast valve. On the other hand, if the council floor flooded with seawater and they had to wade through it, they’d be even more upset. No matter how you looked at it, the ballast department was screwed.