Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(52)

Xenocrates did his best to hide his terror, but suspected it beamed through any pretense. “Are you here to end me, Rowan? If so, get it over with, as I abhor waiting.”

“It’s tempting, Your Excellency, but try as I might, I couldn’t find anything in your history that would earn you permanent death. At worst, you deserve a spanking, like they used to give naughty children in the mortal age.”

Xenocrates was offended by the insult, but more relieved that he was not about to die. “Then are you here to surrender to me and face judgment for your heinous acts?”

“Not when there are still so many ‘heinous acts’ left for me to do.”

Xenocrates took a sip of his drink, in the moment noticing the bitter over the sweet. “You won’t escape from here, you know. ?There are BladeGuards everywhere.”

Rowan shrugged. “I got in, I’ll get out. You forget I was trained by the best.”

And although Xenocrates wanted to scoff, he knew the boy was right. The late Scythe Faraday was the finest mentor when it came to the psychological subtleties of being a scythe, and the late Scythe Goddard was the best teacher when it came to the brutal realities of their calling. Taken together, it meant that whatever Rowan Damisch was here for, it was no trivial matter.

? ? ?

Rowan knew he had taken a risk coming here, and knew that his self-confidence might just be his fatal flaw. But he also found the danger exhilarating. Xenocrates was a creature of habit, so after a little research, Rowan knew exactly where he would be nearly every evening during the Month of Lights.

Even with a sizeable BladeGuard presence, slipping in as a bath attendant was easy. Rowan had learned early on that the men and women of the BladeGuard, while trained in physical protection and enforcement, did not suffer from an excess of brains—or, for that matter, any skills of observation. It wasn’t surprising; until recently the BladeGuard was more ornamental than functional, since scythes were rarely threatened. Mostly, their job was to stand around in their pretty uniforms, looking impressive. ?They were lost whenever they were given something substantial to do.

All Rowan had to do was to walk in dressed like an attendant, with an air of belonging, and the guards completely ignored him.

Rowan looked around to make sure they were unobserved. There were no guards within the High Blade’s bath chamber; they were all in the corridor beyond a closed door, which meant their conversation could be nice and private.

He sat at the edge of the bath, where the scent of eucalyptus in the steam was strong, and dipped a finger in the uncomfortably hot water.

“You almost drowned in a pool not much bigger than this,” Rowan said.

“How kind of you to remind me,” the High Blade responded.

Then Rowan got down to business. “We have a couple of things to discuss. First, I’d like to make you an offer.”

Xenocrates actually laughed at him. “What makes you think I’d entertain any offer you wanted to make? We in the scythedom don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

Rowan grinned. “Come now, ?Your Excellency, there hasn’t been a terrorist in hundreds of years. I’m just a janitor cleaning filth from dark corners.”

“Your antics are highly illegal!”

“I know for a fact that you hate the new-order scythes as much as I do.”

“They must be handled with diplomacy!” Xenocrates insisted.

“They must be handled with action,” Rowan countered. “And your many attempts to track me down have nothing to do with wanting to stop me. It’s all about your embarrassment at the fact that you haven’t been able to catch me.”

Xenocrates was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a voice dripping with disgust, “What is it you want?”

“Very simple. I want you to stop searching for me and put all of your effort into finding out who is trying to kill Scythe Anastasia. In return, I’ll stop my ‘antics.’ At least in MidMerica.”

Xenocrates let out a long, slow breath, clearly relieved that the request wasn’t an impossible one.

“If you must know, we’ve already pulled our best—and only—criminal investigator from your case, and assigned him to finding Scythes Anastasia’s and Curie’s attackers.”

“Scythe Constantine?”

“Yes. So rest assured we’re doing everything we can. I do not want to lose two good scythes. Each of them is worth ten of the ones you mop up with your ‘janitorial’ services.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“I didn’t,” Xenocrates told him. “And I will flatly deny any accusation that I did.”

“Don’t worry,” Rowan said. “Like I said, you’re not the enemy.”

“Are we done here? Can I return to my bath in peace?”

“One more thing,” Rowan said. “I want to know who gleaned my father.”

Xenocrates turned to look at him. Beneath his disgust at being cornered like this—behind his indignation—was that a look of compassion? Rowan couldn’t tell if it was real or feigned. Even with heavy robes removed, the man was still wrapped in so many opaque layers, it was hard to know if anything the High Blade said was sincere.

“Yes, I heard about that. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I would say it was a breach of the second commandment, because it shows a clear bias against you—but considering how the scythedom feels about you, I don’t think anyone will bring a charge against Scythe Brahms.”