Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(87)

Scythe Curie’s face, so stoic most of the time, now betrayed uncharacteristic anguish. “The things I did in my past—the very things that people laud me for—are the very things that should disqualify me from being High Blade!”

At that, Scythe Constantine laughed. “Marie, if we were judged by the things we most regret, no human being would be worthy to sweep the floor. You are the most qualified, and it’s time you accepted the fact.”

? ? ?

The turmoil in the conclave chamber did not damage the scythes’ appetites. If anything, they ate more voraciously. Anastasia wandered the rotunda, trying to take the temperature of the room. The new-order scythes were buzzing with schemes and subterfuges—but so was the old guard. The day would not end until a new High Blade was chosen—because, if anything, the scythedom had learned from the abuses of political contests in the Age of Mortality. Best to get an election over as quickly as possible, before everyone became even more bitter and disgusted than they already were.

“He won’t have the votes,” everyone was saying of Nietzsche. “Even those who support him only do so because he’s the best they’ve got.”

“If Curie wins,” said Scythe Morrison, whom Anastasia could not seem to avoid, “you’ll be one of her underscythes. That’s a pretty powerful place to be.”

“Well, I’m voting for her,” said Scythe Yamaguchi, still glowing from the praise she received earlier in the day. “She’ll be a much better High Blade than Xenocrates.”

“I heard that!” said Xenocrates, barging into their conversation like a dirigible. Scythe Yamaguchi was mortified, but Xenocrates was jovial. “Not to worry,” he said. “It’s not me you need to impress anymore!”

The man was positively ecstatic to have finally been able to tell the scythedom of his appointment.

“So, what do we call you now, ?Your Excellency?” Morrison asked, ever the suck-up.

“As a Grandslayer, I shall now be addressed as ‘Your Exalted Excellency,’?” he said, seeming like a child who just came home with a perfect report card. Perhaps he had been transformed into a child after all.

“Have you spoken to Scythe Constantine yet?” Anastasia asked, and that deflated him slightly.

“I’ve been putting space between us, if you must know,” he said, speaking to Anastasia as if in confidence, but loud enough for others to hear. “I’m sure he wants to discuss the latest information on your old friend Rowan Damisch—but I have no interest in the discussion. He shall be the new High Blade’s concern.”

The mention of Rowan hit her like a glancing blow, but she shook it off. “You should speak to Constantine,” she said. “It’s important.” And to make sure that he did, she waved to Constantine, who came right over.

“Your Excellency,” Constantine said—because he was not exalted yet—“I need to know who you told about your appointment.”

Xenocrates was offended by the insinuation. “No one, of course. It is a secret matter when one is chosen to succeed a Grandslayer.”

“Yes—but is there anyone who might have overheard?”

Xenocrates held his answer for a beat, and that was how they knew there was something he wasn’t saying. “No. No one.”

Constantine said nothing; just waited for him to come clean.

“Of course, the news did come during one of my dinner parties,” he said.

The High Blade was known for his dinner parties. Always intimate, for no more than two or three scythes. It was an honor to be invited to break bread with the High Blade, and part of his diplomatic strategy was to always invite scythes who despised one another, with the hope of creating friendships, or, at the very least, meaningful détentes. Sometimes he was successful, sometimes not.

“Who was there?” asked Constantine.

“I took the call in another room.”

“Yes, but who was there?”

“Two scythes,” Xenocrates said. “Twain and Brahms.”

Anastasia knew Twain pretty well. He claimed to be independent, but he almost always sided with the old guard when it came to important decisions. Brahms she knew only from conversations with others.

“He was ordained in the Year of the Snail,” Scythe Curie had once told her. “Fitting, because the man seems to leave a trail of slime wherever he goes.” But she also said that Brahms was harmless. A lackluster, lazy scythe who did his job and little more. Could such a man be the mastermind of the plot against them?

Before lunch ended, ?Anastasia approached Scythe Brahms as he perused the dessert table, to see if she could figure out where his allegiances lay.

“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I never seem to have room for dessert at conclave lunches.”

“The trick is to eat slowly,” he said. “Pace for the pudding, my mother used to say.” ?Then, when he took a piece of pie from the buffet table, Anastasia could clearly see that his hands were shaking.

“You should get that checked,” she told him. “Your nanites might need adjusting.”

“It’s just the excitement,” he said. “It’s not every day we choose a new High Blade.”

“Can Scythe Curie count on your vote?”

He chuckled at that. “Well, I’m certainly not voting for Nietzsche!” Then he excused himself and disappeared into the crowd with his slice of apple pie.