Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(5)

On extremely rare occasions, however, the building was closed to the public and became a site for highly sensitive official business.

Xenocrates, High Blade of MidMerica—the most important scythe in the region—was as light on his feet as a man of his considerable weight could be as he walked down the center aisle of the cathedral. The gold adornments of the altar ahead paled in comparison to his golden robe, decorated in glittering brocade. An underling had once commented that he looked like an ornament that had fallen off a giant’s Christmas tree. That underling had found herself exceptionally unemployable after that.

Xenocrates enjoyed the robe—except on the occasions that its weight became an issue. Such as the time he nearly drowned in Scythe Goddard’s pool, ensconced in the many layers of his gilded robe. But that was a debacle best forgotten.

Goddard.

It was Goddard who was ultimately responsible for the current situation. Even in death, the man was wreaking havoc. The scythedom was still feeling heavy aftershocks from the trouble he whipped.

At the front end of the cathedral, past the altar, stood the scythedom’s Parliamentarian, a tedious little scythe whose job was to make sure that rules and procedures were properly followed. Behind him was a set of three ornately carved booths, connected, but with partitions between them.

“The priest would sit in the center chamber,” the docents would explain to tourists, “and listen to confessions from the right booth, then from the left booth, so that the procession of supplicants could move more quickly.”

Confessions were no longer heard here, but the three-compartment structure of the confessional made it perfect for an official trialogue.

Trialogues between the scythedom and the Thunderhead were rare. So rare, in fact, that Xenocrates, in all his years as High Blade, had never had to engage in one. He resented the fact that he had to do so now.

“You are to take the booth on the right, Your Excellency,” the Parliamentarian told him. “The Nimbus agent representing the Thunderhead will be seated on the left. Once you are both in place, we shall bring in the Interlocutor to sit in the center section between you.”

Xenocrates sighed. “Such a nuisance.”

“Audience by proxy is the only audience with the Thunderhead that you can have, Your Excellency.”

“I know, I know, but I do have a right to be annoyed.”

Xenocrates took his place in the right-hand booth, horrified by how cramped it was. Were mortal humans so malnourished that they could fit in such a space? The Parliamentarian had to force the door closed.

A few moments later the High Blade heard the Nimbus agent enter the far compartment, and after an interminable delay, the Interlocutor took center position.

A window too small and too low to see through slid open, and the Interlocutor spoke.

“Good day, Your Excellency,” said a woman with a pleasant enough voice. “I am to be your proxy to the Thunderhead.”

“Proxy to the proxy, you mean.”

“Yes, well, the Nimbus agent to my right has full authority to speak for the Thunderhead in this trialogue.” She cleared her throat. “The process is very simple. You are to tell me whatever you wish to convey, and I will pass it on to the Nimbus agent. If he deems that responding will not violate the Separation of Scythe and State, the agent will answer, and I shall relay that answer to you.”

“Very well,” said Xenocrates, impatient to move this along. “Give the Nimbus agent my heartfelt greetings, and wishes for good relations between our respective organizations.”

The window slid closed, then half a minute later slid open again.

“I’m sorry,” the Interlocutor said. “The Nimbus agent says that any form of greeting is a violation, and that your respective organizations are forbidden to have any sort of relationship, so wishing for good relations is not appropriate.”

Xenocrates cursed loud enough for the Interlocutor to hear.

“Shall I relay your displeasure to the Nimbus agent?” she asked.

The High Blade bit his lip. He wished this nonmeeting could just be over. The fastest way to bring it to a conclusion was to get right to the point.

“We wish to know why the Thunderhead has not taken any action to apprehend Rowan Damisch. He has been responsible for the permanent deaths of numerous scythes across multiple Merican regions, but the Thunderhead has done nothing to stop him.”

The window slapped shut. The High Blade waited, and when the Interlocutor pulled the window open again, she delivered the following response:

“The Nimbus agent wishes me to remind Your Excellency that the Thunderhead has no jurisdiction over internal matters within the scythedom. To take action would be a blatant violation.”

“This is not an internal scythe matter because Rowan Damisch is not a scythe!” Xenocrates yelled . . . and was warned by the Interlocutor to keep his voice down.

“If the Nimbus agent hears you directly, he will leave,” she reminded him.

Xenocrates took as deep a breath as he could in the cramped space. “Just pass the message on.”

She did, and then returned with, “The Thunderhead feels otherwise.”

“What? How could it feel anything? It’s a glorified computer program.”

“I suggest you refrain from insulting the Thunderhead in this trialogue if you wish it to continue.”

“Fine. Tell the Nimbus agent that Rowan Damisch was never ordained by the MidMerican scythedom. He was an apprentice who failed to rise to our standards, nothing more—which means that he falls under the Thunderhead’s jurisdiction, not ours. He should be treated by the Thunderhead as any other citizen would be.”