Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(91)

“I take being a scythe seriously,” she told him. “I’d have more respect for you if you did, as well.”

“I do! In case you forgot, I seconded the Granddame’s nomination, didn’t I? I knew it would make me the instant enemy of all the new-order scythes out there, but I did it anyway.”

She felt herself being drawn into a drama, and she knew it was burning up valuable time. “If you want to be useful, Morrison, then use all that charm and good looks to get Scythe Curie more votes.”

Morrison smiled. “So you think I’m good-looking?”

She was done here. It just wasn’t worth it. She pushed past him, but not before he said something that stopped her in her tracks.

“Freaky how Goddard isn’t entirely Goddard, isn’t it?”

She turned back to him, his words hooking in her mind so sharply it almost hurt.

Seeing that he had her attention again, he continued. “I mean, a person’s head is like, what, only ten percent of a person, right?”

“Seven percent,” corrected Anastasia, remembering the fact from her anatomy studies. The wheels in her mind that had been at a dead standstill were now spinning with a rare sort of energy.

“Morrison, you’re a genius. I mean, you’re an idiot, but you’re also a genius!”

“Thanks. I think.”

The chamber doors had already opened to readmit the scythes. Anastasia pushed her way through in search of the more friendly faces—the ones she knew might go out on a limb for her.

Scythe Curie was already inside, but she wouldn’t ask Marie anyway; she had enough to contend with. She couldn’t ask Scythe Mandela—he was chair of the bejeweling committee, and would be in charge of bestowing rings to the apprentices who were about to be ordained as scythes. Scythe Al-Farabi was a possibility, but he had already called her out on her poor knowledge of parliamentary procedure—he would just chide her again. What she needed was someone whom she considered a friend, who could educate her in the structural machinations of the scythedom. How things were done . . . and how things were not done.

She thought back to the Thunderhead. How it had found a loophole in its own laws that allowed it to talk to her when she was in a state between life and death. It told her she was important. Critical, even. She suspected part of that rested in her actions today. Now it was Anastasia’s turn to find a loophole, and make it wide enough to push the entire scythedom through.

Finally she settled on a worthy conspirator.

“Scythe Cervantes,” she said, gently grabbing him by the arm, “could I have a word with you?”

? ? ?

Two new scythes were ordained, and two apprentices were denied. The one who raced for the coin ironically became Scythe Thorpe—after a famed Olympian athlete known for his speed. The other became Scythe McAuliffe, after the first woman astronaut to die in a space disaster—one that occurred long before the awful space disasters of the post-mortal age.

The scythedom was on edge with an incendiary anxiety by the time the first-and second-term apprentices came forward for their trial; the vote for High Blade was all that was on anyone’s mind, but Xenocrates deemed that it would not happen until after the apprentice trials, because regardless of which way the vote fell, there’d be no bringing conclave back to order for more business after that.

The trial, administered by Scythe Salk, was a test of knowledge in poisons. Each apprentice was asked to prepare a specific poison and its antidote, then take them in succession. Six succeeded, three did not, rendering themselves deadish, and had to be rushed to a revival center.

“Very well,” said Xenocrates after the last of the deadish apprentices had been taken out, “do we have any other business before the vote?”

“Just get on with it!” shouted someone who had gotten understandably cranky.

“Very well. Please ready your tablets.” He paused as the scythes all prepared themselves for the instantaneous electronic vote, hiding their tablets in the folds of their robes so that not even their neighbor could see who they voted for. “The vote shall commence on my mark, and continue for ten seconds. Any vote not cast shall be considered an abstention.”

Anastasia said nothing to Scythe Curie. Instead, she met eyes with Scythe Cervantes, who nodded at her. She took a deep breath.

“Commence!” ordered Xenocrates, and the vote began.

Anastasia cast her vote in the first second. Then she waited . . . and waited. She held her breath. The timing had to be perfect. There was no margin for error. Then, eight seconds in, she rose and shouted in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I call for an inquest!”

The High Blade rose. “An inquest? We’re in the middle of a vote!”

“The end of a vote, Your Excellency. Time is up—all votes are now in.” Anastasia did not allow the High Blade to shut her down. “Until the moment the results are announced, any scythe who has the floor may demand an inquest!”

Xenocrates looked to the Parliamentarian, who said, “She’s right, ?Your Excellency.”

At least a hundred scythes roared in outrage, but Xenocrates, who had long since given up on his gavel, railed against them with such fury that it brought the objections down to a simmer. “You will control yourselves!” he commanded. “And anyone who cannot will be ejected from conclave!” Then he turned to Anastasia. “On what grounds do you call for an inquest? And it had better be good.”