Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(92)

“On the grounds that Mr. Goddard is not sufficiently enough of a scythe to hold the position of High Blade.”

Goddard could not contain himself. “What? This is clearly a tactic aimed at stalling and befuddling the vote!”

“The vote has already been cast!” Xenocrates reminded him.

“Then have the Clerk read the results!” Goddard demanded.

“Excuse me,” said Anastasia, “but I have the floor, and the results cannot be read until I either yield it, or my inquest is denied.”

“Anastasia,” said Xenocrates, “your request makes no sense.”

“I’m sorry to disagree with you, Your Excellency, but it does. As stated in the founding articles during the first World Conclave, a scythe shall be prepared both mind and body for the scythedom, and affirmed at a gathering of regional scythes. But Mr. Goddard has only retained seven percent of the body that was ordained for scythehood. The rest of him—including the part of him that bears his ring—is not, nor has ever been, ordained as a scythe.”

Xenocrates just stared at her, incredulous, and Goddard practically foamed at the mouth.

“This is preposterous!” yelled Goddard.

“No,” countered Anastasia, “what you’ve done, Mr. Goddard, is preposterous. You and your associates replaced your body in a procedure that has been banned by the Thunderhead.”

Scythe Rand stood up. “You’re out of line! Thunderhead rules don’t apply to us! They never have and they never will!”

Still, Anastasia didn’t yield; instead, she continued to calmly appeal to Xenocrates. “Your Excellency, it is not my intent to challenge the election—how could I when we still have no idea who won? But following the rule set early in the life of the scythedom—the Year of the Jaguar, to be exact—by Second World Supreme Blade Napoleon, and I quote, ‘Any contentious event that has no precedent in parliamentary procedure may be brought before the World Council of Scythes in an official inquest.’?”

Then Scythe Cervantes rose. “I second Honorable Scythe Anastasia’s demand for an inquest,” and upon his seconding, at least a hundred other scythes rose and began to applaud in support of the action. Anastasia looked to Scythe Curie, who was, to say the least, bewildered, but trying to hide it.

“So this is what you were talking with Cervantes about,” she said, with a wry smile. “You sly little devil!”

At the rostrum, Xenocrates deferred to the Parliamentarian, who could do nothing but shrug. “She’s correct, Your Excellency. She has a right to an inquest, as long as the election results have not been read.”

Across the room a furious Goddard raised an arm that wasn’t his and pointed at Xenocrates. “If you go through with this, there will be consequences!”

The High Blade burned him a gaze that made it clear he still controlled the room. “Are you openly threatening me in front of the entire MidMerican scythedom, Goddard?”

That made Goddard backpedal. “No, Your Excellency. I wouldn’t presume to do such a thing! I am merely stating that a delay in announcing the vote would have consequences for the scythedom. MidMerica would be without a High Blade until the end of the inquest.”

“In that case, I shall appoint Scythe Paine, our illustrious Parliamentarian, as temporary High Blade.”

“What?” said Scythe Paine.

Xenocrates ignored him. “He has served with remarkable integrity and is completely impartial to the rising factions within the scythedom. He can preside with—dare I say it—common sense—until this issue can be brought to the World Council. It will be my first task as a Grandslayer. And so, as my last task as High Blade of MidMerica, I grant this inquest. The results of the vote shall be sealed until the inquest is complete.” Then, with a bang of his gavel, he said, “I pronounce this Winter Conclave, Year of the Raptor, officially closed.”

? ? ?

“Did I not say that she would shake things up?” Scythe Constantine said, over a well-attended dinner at Fulcrum City’s finest restaurant. “Congratulations, Anastasia.” He gave a wide grin that, in any other circumstance would have been nasty. “Today you are the most loved—and the most hated—scythe in all MidMerica.”

Anastasia found she had no response to that.

Scythe Curie picked up on her ambivalence. “It comes with the territory, dear. You can’t make your mark without gleaning a few egos along the way.”

“I wasn’t making a mark,” Anastasia told her. “I was putting my finger in a dyke. And it’s still there.”

“Yes,” agreed Scythe Cervantes. “Holding back the foul flood waters for another day—and every day gives us a new chance to find a more elegant solution.”

There were more than a dozen at the table; a veritable rainbow of scythes. Somehow, Scythe Morrison had finagled himself an invitation. “I was the one who gave her the idea,” he told the other scythes. “Sort of.” Anastasia’s spirits were too high to allow him to get under her skin. She imagined that elsewhere in the city, the new-order scythes were licking their wounds and cursing her name, but not here. Here she was shielded from all that.

“I do hope you write about what transpired today in your journal,” Scythe Angelou said to her. “I suspect your account of this day will go down in antiquity as a key scythe writing—much like Marie’s account of her early gleanings.”