فصل 28

I fought against the purge. There are things I’ve done that I am not proud of, but I am very proud that I fought against that.

I can’t recall which scythe began that odious campaign to glean only those who were born mortal, but it spread throughout each regional Scythedom, a viral idea in a post-viral time. “Shouldn’t those who were born to expect death be the sole subjects of gleaning?” went the popular wisdom. But it was bigotry masquerading as wisdom. Selfishness posing as enlightenment.  And not enough scythes argued—because those born in the post-mortal age found mortal-borns to be too uncomfortably different in the way they thought, and in the way they lived their lives. “Let them die with the age that bore them,” cried the post-mortal purists in the Scythedom.

In the end it was deemed a gross violation of the second commandment, and all those scythes who participated in the purge were severely disciplined—but by then it was too late to undo what had been done. We lost our ancients. We lost our elders. We lost our living lifeline to the past. There are still mortal-borns around, but they hide their age and their history, for fear of being targeted again.

Yes, I fought the purge—but the Thunderhead did not. By its own law of noninterference in scythe affairs, it could do nothing to stop the purge. All it could do was bear witness. The Thunderhead allowed us to make that costly mistake, leaving the Scythedom to wallow in its own regret to this very day.

I often wonder, should the Scythedom run entirely off the rails and decide to glean all of humanity in a grand suicide of global gleaning, would the Thunderhead break its noninterference law and stop it? Or would it bear witness again as we destroyed ourselves, leaving nothing behind but a living cloud of our knowledge, accomplishments, and so-called wisdom?

Would the Thunderhead grieve our passing, I wonder? And if so, would it grieve as the child who has lost a parent, or as the parent who could not save a petulant child from its own poor choices?

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

28

Hydrogen Burning in the Heart of the Sun

Citra Terranova, said a voice both powerful yet gentle. Citra Terranova, can you hear me?

Who’s that? Is someone there?

Curious, said the voice. Very curious. . .

• • •

Being deadish was a pain in the ass. No question about it.

When she was once more pronounced legally alive, she awoke to the unfamiliar but professionally friendly face of a revival nurse checking her vitals. She tried to look around her, but her neck was still in a brace.

“Welcome back, honey,” the nurse said.

The room seemed to spin every time she moved her eyes. It was more than just pain nanites, she must have had all sorts of numbing, rejuvenating chemicals and microbots inside her.

“How long?” she rasped.

“Just two days,” the nurse said cheerily. “Simple spinal severing. Nothing too hard for us to handle.” Two days were robbed from her life; two days she didn’t have to spare.

“My family?”

“Sorry, honey, but this was a scythe matter. They weren’t notified.” The nurse patted her hand. “You can tell them all about it when you next see them. Now the best thing for you to do is relax. You’ll be here one more day, and then you’ll be good as new.”  Then she offered Citra ice cream that was the best she’d ever tasted.

• • •

That evening, Scythe Curie came and filled her in on all she had missed. Rowan had been disqualified and severely reprimanded for his poor sportsmanship.

“Are you telling me that because he was disqualified, I won?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Scythe Curie said. “He was clearly going to beat you. It was decided that both of you lose. We really need to work on your martial art skills, Citra.” “Well, that’s just great,” Citra said, exasperated for a very different reason than Scythe Curie thought. “So now Rowan and I are both zero for two at conclave.” Scythe Curie sighed. “The third time’s the charm,” she said. “Now it will all come down to how well you do at Winter Conclave. And I have faith that you will shine in your final test.” Citra closed her eyes, remembering the look on Rowan’s face when he held her in that headlock. There was something cold there. Calculating. In that moment, she saw a side of him she had never seen before. It was as if he was looking forward to what he was about to do to her. As if he was going to enjoy it. She was so confused! Did he really plan that move from the beginning? Did he not know he’d be disqualified, or was disqualification his plan?

“What was Rowan like after it happened?” Citra asked Scythe Curie. “Did he seem shocked at all about what he had done? Did he kneel down to me? Did he help carry me out to the ambudrone?” Scythe Curie took a moment before she answered. Then finally she said, “He just stood there, Citra. His face was like stone. Defiant, and as unrepentant as his scythe.” Citra tried to turn away, but even though the brace was now gone, her neck was still too stiff to move.

“He’s not who you think he is anymore,” Scythe Curie said slowly, so that it would sink in.

“No,” Citra agreed, “he’s not.” But for the life of her she had no idea who he was now.

• • •

Rowan thought he would receive another brutal beating when he returned to the mansion. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Scythe Goddard was all flamboyance and bright chatter. He called for the butler to bring champagne and glasses for everyone, right there in the foyer, so they could toast Rowan’s audacity.

“That took more nerve than I thought you had, boy,” Goddard said.

“Here, here,” seconded Scythe Rand. “You can come to my room and break my neck any time.” “He didn’t just break her neck,” Scythe Goddard pointed out. “He unflinchingly snapped her spine! Everyone heard it. I’m sure it woke up the scythes sleeping in the back row!” “Classic!” said Scythe Chomsky, guzzling his champagne down, not waiting for the toast.

“It was a powerful statement you made,” said Goddard. “It reminded everyone that you are my apprentice, and you are not to be trifled with!” Then he became a little quieter. Almost gentle. “I know you had feelings for that girl, yet you did what needed to be done, and more.” “I was disqualified,” Rowan reminded them.

“Officially, yes,” Goddard agreed, “but you gained the admiration of quite a few important scythes.” “And made enemies of others,”  Volta pointed out.

“Nothing wrong with drawing a line in the sand,” Goddard responded. “It takes a strong man to do that. The kind of man I’m happy to raise a glass to.” Rowan looked up to see Esme sitting at the top of the grand staircase watching them. He wondered if she knew what he had done, and the thought that she might made him feel ashamed.

“To Rowan!” said Scythe Goddard, holding his glass high. “The scourge of the stiff-necked, and the shatterer of spines.” It was the most bitter glass Rowan had ever had to swallow.

“And now,” said Goddard, “I do believe a party is in order.”

• • •

The party that followed the Harvest Conclave was one for the record books, and no one was immune to Goddard’s contagious energy. Even before guests started to arrive and the first of five DJs cranked up the music, Goddard threw his arms wide in the mansion’s ornate living room as if he could reach from wall to wall, and said to no one in particular, “I am in my element, and my element is hydrogen burning in the heart of the sun!” It was so outrageous a thing to say, it even made Rowan laugh.

“He’s so full of crap,” Scythe Rand whispered to Rowan, “but you gotta love it.” As the rooms, and the terraces, and the pool deck began to fill with partiers, Rowan began to rise from the funk he had been left in after his awful bout with Citra.

“I checked for you,” Scythe Volta told him. “Citra’s conscious and has one more day in the revival center. She’ll go back home fully recovered with Scythe Curie; no harm, no foul. Well, plenty of foul, but that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Rowan didn’t answer him. He wondered if anyone else was insightful enough to know why he did what he did. He hoped not.

Then Volta got serious in the midst of the revelry around them. “Don’t lose the scythehood to her, Rowan,” he said. “At least not on purpose. If she beats you fair and square that’s one thing, but submitting yourself to her blade because of raging hormones is just plain stupid.” Maybe Volta was right. Perhaps he should do his best in their final trial, and if his best outshined Citra’s, he would accept the scythe ring. And then maybe he would glean himself as his first and only act. Then he’d never be faced with having to glean Citra. It comforted Rowan that he had a way out, even though it was a worst-case scenario.

• • •

The rich and famous arrived by helicopter, by limousine, and in one bizarre but memorable entrance, by jet pack. Goddard made a point to introduce Rowan to them all, as if Rowan were a prize worth showing off. “Watch this boy,” Goddard told his high-profile guests. “He’s going places.” Rowan had never felt so valued and validated. It was hard to hate a man who treated him like the meat rather than the lettuce.

“This is how life was meant to be lived,” Goddard told Rowan as they luxuriated in his open-face cabana, looking out over the festivities. “Experiencing all there is to experience, and enjoying the company of others.” “Even when some of those others are paid to be here?”

Goddard looked out at the crowded pool deck that would have been far less dense, and far less beautiful, had it not been for the presence of professional party guests.

“There are always extras in every production,” he told Rowan. “They fill in the gaps and make for pleasant scenery. We wouldn’t want everyone to be a celebrity, would we? They’d do nothing but fight!” In the pool a net went up, and dozens gathered for a game of volleyball. “Look around you, Rowan,” Goddard said in utter contentment. “Have you ever experienced such good times as these? The commoners love us not because of the way we glean, but because of the way we live. We need to accept our role as the new royalty.” Rowan didn’t see himself as royalty, but he was willing to play along, at least today. So he went to the pool and jumped in, declaring himself captain of the team and joining Scythe Goddard’s loyal subjects in their game.

The thing about Scythe Goddard’s parties is that it was very difficult not to have a good time, no matter how hard you tried. And with all the good feelings that abounded, it was easy to forget what a ruthless butcher Goddard was.

But was he a killer of scythes?

Citra hadn’t directly accused Goddard—but it was clear that he was her prime suspect. Citra’s investigation was troubling, yet try as he might, Rowan could not find a single instance since he’d been in Goddard’s presence where Goddard did anything that was illegal by scythe law. His interpretations of the commandments might have been stretches, but nothing he did was an actual violation. Even his gleaning rampages were not forbidden by anything but custom and tradition.

“The old guard despises me because I live and glean with a flair they sorely lack,” Goddard had told Rowan. “They’re a crowd of bitter backstabbers, envious that I’ve found the secret of being the perfect scythe.” Well, perfection was subjective—Rowan certainly wouldn’t call the man a perfect scythe—but there was nothing in Goddard’s repertoire of malfeasance that would suggest he would murder Faraday.

• • •

On the third day of this seemingly unending bash, there were two unexpected party guests—or at least unexpected to Rowan. The first was High Blade Xenocrates himself.

“What is he doing here?” Rowan asked Scythe Chomsky when he saw the High Blade come out to the pool.

“Don’t ask me—I didn’t invite him.”

It seemed strange that the High Blade would show up at the party of a highly controversial scythe. He didn’t appear comfortable being here at all. He seemed self-conscious and tried to be inconspicuous, but a man of such mighty girth, festooned in gold, was hard not to see. He stood out like a hot air balloon in an otherwise empty field.

It was, however, the second guest that shocked Rowan more. He was stripping down to his bathing suit just seconds after getting to the pool deck. It was none other than Rowan’s friend, Tyger Salazar, who Rowan hadn’t seen since the day he showed him Scythe Faraday’s weapons den.

Rowan made a beeline to him, pulling him aside behind a topiary hedge.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hey, Rowan!” Tyger said, with his signature slanted grin, “good to see you, too! Man, you’re looking buff! What did they inject you with?” “Nothing, it’s all real—and you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here? Do you know how much trouble you could be in if anyone found out you snuck in? This isn’t like crashing a school dance!” “Take it easy! I’m not crashing anything. I’ve signed up with Guests Unlimited. I’m a licensed partier now!” Tyger had often boasted that to be a professional party guest was his life’s ambition, but Rowan had never taken him seriously.

“Tyger, this is a really bad idea—worse than any of your other bad ideas.” Then he whispered, “Professional partiers sometimes have to . . . do things you might not be up for. I know; I’ve seen it.” “Dude, you know me; I go where the day takes me.”

“And your parents are okay with this?”

Tyger looked down, his upbeat demeanor suddenly subdued. “My parents surrendered me.” “What? Are you kidding?

Tyger shrugged. “One splat too many. They gave up. Now I’m a ward of the Thunderhead.” “I’m sorry, Tyger.”

“Hey, don’t be. Believe it or not, the Thunderhead’s a better father than my father was. I get good advice now, and get asked how my day was by someone who actually seems to care.” Just like everything else about the Thunderhead, its parenting skills were indisputable. But being surrendered by his parents had to hurt.

“Somehow,” noted Rowan, “I don’t think the Thunderhead advised you to be a professional party boy.” “No—but it can’t stop me. It’s my choice to make. And anyway, it pays pretty good.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in close and whispered, “But you know what pays even better?” Rowan was almost afraid to ask. “What?”

“The word on the street is that you’ve been training with live subjects. That kind of work pays top dollar! Do you think you could put in a word for me? I mean, I go deadish all the time. Might as well get paid for it!” Rowan stared at him in disbelief. “Are you nuts? Do you even know what you’re saying? My god, what are you on?” “Just my own nanites, man. Just my own nanites.”

• • •

Scythe Volta felt lucky to be in Goddard’s inner circle. Most of the time. The youngest of Goddard’s three junior scythes, he saw himself as the balancing force. Chomsky was the brainless brawn, Rand was the animus—the wild force of nature among them. Volta was the sensible one who saw more than he let anyone know. He was the first to see Xenocrates arrive at the party, and watched as he unsuccessfully tried to avoid encounters. He ended up shaking hands with a number of the other guest scythes—some from regions as far flung as PanAsia and EuroScandia. It was all with such reluctance on Xenocrates’ part that Volta knew the man wasn’t here entirely by choice.

Volta positioned himself near Goddard to see if he could get a bead on exactly what was going on.

When Goddard saw the High Blade, he stood; an obligatory sign of respect. “Your Excellency, what an honor it is to have you at my little get-together.” “Not so little,” answered Xenocrates.

“Volta!” ordered Goddard, “Bring us two chairs poolside, so we can be closer to all the action.” And although such a task was normally left to the servants, Volta did not complain, because it gave him a perfect excuse to eavesdrop on them. He placed two chairs on the flagstone patio by the deep end of the pool.

“Closer,” said Goddard. So Volta placed the chairs close enough for the two of them to be splashed by anyone choosing to use the diving board. “Stay nearby,” he told Volta quietly, which is exactly what Volta had intended to do.

“Something to eat, Your Excellency?” Volta asked, gesturing to the buffet table just a few yards away.

“Thank you, no,” he said. This, from a man who had a reputation for being quite the gourmand, was telling in and of itself. “Must we meet here?” Xenocrates asked. “Wouldn’t you prefer to speak in a quiet room?” “None of my rooms are quiet today,” Goddard said.

“Yes, but this is far too public a forum.”

“Nonsense, this isn’t the Forum,” said Goddard. “It’s more like Nero’s palace.” Volta chimed in with a hearty but staged laugh. If he had to play toady, he would own the part today.

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t become the Coliseum,” said Xenocrates, a little bit of bite to his words.

Goddard chuckled at the thought. “Believe me, I’d be more than happy to throw a few Tonists to the lions.” A partygoer—one of the paid ones—did a perfect triple gainer off the diving board, the splash leaving a streak across the High Blade’s heavy robe.

“Don’t you think this ostentatious lifestyle will catch up with you?” Xenocrates asked.

“It can’t catch me if I keep moving,” Goddard said with a smirk. “I’m nearly done with this place. I’ve been looking at real estate down south.” “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“Why so tense, Your Excellency?” said Goddard. “I invited you here because I wanted you to see firsthand what a positive thing my parties are for the Scythedom. Good public relations all around! You should be throwing grand galas at your own home.” “You forget that I live in a log cabin.”

Goddard narrowed his eyes, not quite to a glare, but close. “Yes, a log cabin perched atop the tallest building in Fulcrum City. At least I’m not a hypocrite, Xenocrates. I don’t feign humility.” And then the High Blade said something to Goddard that was a surprise to Volta, although in retrospect, it shouldn’t have been a surprise at all. “My greatest mistake,” said Xenocrates, “was choosing you as an apprentice all those years ago.” “Let’s hope so,” said Goddard. “I’d hate to think that you’ve yet to make your greatest mistake.” It was a threat without actually being a threat. Goddard was remarkably good at that.

“So tell me,” said Goddard, “does fortune smile on my apprentice, as it has on yours?” Now Volta’s ears pricked up, wondering what fortune Goddard meant.

Xenocrates took a deep breath and let it out. “Fortune is smiling. The girl will cease to be an issue within a week. I’m sure of it.” Another diver splashed them. Xenocrates put up his hands to shield himself from it, but Goddard didn’t flinch in the least.

Cease to be an issue. That could mean any number of things. Volta looked around until he spotted Rowan. He seemed to be having a heated discussion with a party boy. Citra “ceasing to be an issue” would be the best thing for Rowan, as far as Volta was concerned.

“Are we done now? May I leave?”

“Just a moment,” said Goddard, and then he turned and called toward the shallow end of the pool. “Esme! Esme come here, there’s someone I want you to meet.” The look of terror that came over the High Blade’s face was chilling. This was indeed getting more interesting by the minute.

“Please, Goddard, no.”

“What’s the harm?” Goddard said.

Esme, water wings and all, came trotting along the pool’s edge to them. “Yes, Scythe Goddard?” He beckoned to her and she sat on his lap, facing the man in gold. “Esme, do you know who this is?” “A scythe?”

“Not just any scythe. This is Xenocrates, the High Blade of MidMerica. He’s Mr. Big.” “Hi,” she said.

Xenocrates offered a pained nod, not meeting the girl’s eye. His discomfort at this encounter radiated like heat. Volta wondered if Goddard had a point or if he was just being cruel.

“I think we met before,” Esme said. “A very long time ago.”

Xenocrates said nothing.

“Our esteemed friend is far too uptight,” Goddard said. “He needs to join the party, don’t you agree, Esme?” Esme shrugged. “He should just have fun like everyone else.”

“Wiser words have never been spoken,” said Goddard. Then he reached behind him out of Esme’s line of sight toward Volta and snapped his fingers.

Volta drew in a slow, silent breath. He knew what Goddard was asking of him. But Volta was reluctant. Now he regretted being a part of this at all.

“Maybe you should show your moves on the dance floor, Your Excellency,” said Goddard. “Then my guests could laugh at you, just the way you made the entire Scythedom laugh at me in conclave. Did you think I forgot about that?” Goddard still reached back toward Volta, now wriggling his fingers impatiently, and Volta had no choice but to give him what he wanted. The young scythe reached into one of the many secret pockets of his yellow robe and pulled out a small dagger, placing the hilt in Goddard’s hand.

Goddard closed his fingers around it, and ever so gently, ever so inconspicuously, brought the edge of the dagger just an inch from Esme’s neck.

The girl didn’t see it. She didn’t know it was there at all. But Xenocrates did. He froze in place, eyes wide, jaw slightly ajar.

“I know!” said Goddard cheerfully. “Why don’t you go for a swim!”

“Please,” begged Xenocrates. “This is not necessary.”

“Oh, but I insist.”

“I don’t think he wants to go swimming,” said Esme.

“But everyone goes swimming at my parties!”

“Don’t do this,” begged the High Blade.

Goddard’s response was to bring the blade even closer to Esme’s unsuspecting neck. Now even Volta was sweating. No one had ever been gleaned at one of Goddard’s parties, but there was always a first time. Volta knew this was a battle of wills, and the only thing that kept him from intervening, and ripping that dagger away from Goddard, was knowing who would blink first.

“Damn you, Goddard!” said Xenocrates. Then he stood up and threw himself into the pool, gold adornments and all.

• • •

Rowan heard none of what transpired between Xenocrates and Goddard, but he did see the High Blade hurl himself into the deep end, creating a cannonball splash that drew everyone’s attention.

Xenocrates went down, and didn’t come back up.

“He sank to the bottom!” someone said. “It’s all that gold!”

Rowan had no great love of the High Blade, but he also didn’t want to see the man drown. It wasn’t like he fell; he had jumped, and if he drowned, trapped in his own golden robe, it would be considered a self-gleaning. Rowan dove into the pool, and so did Tyger, following his lead. They swam to the bottom, where Xenocrates was bubbling out his last bit of air. Rowan grabbed the man’s heavy, multilayered robe, tugging it over his head, and both he and Tyger helped the High Blade up to the surface, where he gasped, coughed, and sputtered. The crowd around them applauded.

Now he didn’t look much like a High Blade—he was just a fat man in wet, golden underwear.

“I guess I must have lost my balance,” he said, trying to be jovial about it and attempting to put a new spin on what had happened. Maybe others believed it, but Rowan had seen him throw himself in. There was no confusing that with an accidental fall. Why on earth would he have done that?

“Wait,” said Xenocrates looking at his right hand. “My ring!”

“I’ll get it!” said Tyger, who was now the party boy of the hour, and dove to the bottom to retrieve it.

Chomsky had arrived at the scene, and he and  Volta reached down from the pool’s edge to haul Xenocrates out of the water. It was as humiliating as could be for the man. He looked like an overstuffed net of fish being hauled onto the deck of a trawler.

Goddard wrapped a large towel around the High Blade, uncharacteristically sheepish. “I truly, truly apologize,” said Goddard. “It never occurred to me that you might actually drown. That wouldn’t have been a good thing for anyone.” And then Rowan realized there was only one reason for Xenocrates to hurl himself into the pool: Because Goddard had ordered him to.

Which meant that Goddard had a much stronger hold on the High Blade than anyone knew. But how?

“Can I go now?” asked Esme.

“Of course you can,” said Goddard, giving her a kiss on the forehead. Then Esme wandered off, searching for playmates among the children of the stars.

Tyger surfaced with the ring. Xenocrates grabbed it from him without as much as a thank you, and slipped it on his finger.

“I tried to get his robe, too, but it’s just too heavy,” said Tyger.

“We’ll get someone with scuba gear to go down there on a treasure dive,” quipped Goddard. “Although they may claim salvage rights.” “Are you quite finished?” said Xenocrates. “Because I want to leave.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

Then the High Blade of MidMerica left the pool deck and went back through the house dripping wet, leaving behind whatever dignity he had arrived with.

“Damn—I should have kissed his ring when I had the chance,” Tyger lamented. “Immunity right there in my hands, and I blew it.” Once Xenocrates was gone, Goddard called out to the crowd, “Anyone who uploads pictures of High Blade Xenocrates in his underwear will be gleaned immediately!” And everyone laughed . . . then stopped when they realized he was not joking in the least.

• • •

As the party wrapped up and Scythe Goddard said good-bye to his most important guests, Rowan watched, taking in everything.

“So I’ll see you at the next party, right?” Tyger said, breaking his focus. “Maybe next time they’ll assign me earlier, so I get to hang for more than just the last day.” The fact that Tyger was about as deep as the fountain out front was an irritation to Rowan. Funny, but he had never been bothered by Tyger’s shallow nature before. Perhaps because Rowan hadn’t been much different. Sure, he wasn’t the thrill-seeker Tyger was, but in his own way, Rowan glided on the surface of his life. Who could have known that the ice was so treacherously thin? Now he was in a place too deep for Tyger to ever understand.

“Sure, Tyger. Next time.”

Tyger left with the other professional party people, with whom he seemed to share much more in common now than with Rowan. Rowan wondered if there was anyone from his old life he could relate to anymore.

Scythe Goddard passed him standing by the entryway. “If you’re practicing to be a neoclassical statue, I should get you a pedestal,” he said. “Of course, we already have enough statuary around here without you.” “Sorry,  Your Honor; I was just thinking.”

“Too much of that could be dangerous.”

“I was just wondering why the High Blade jumped into the pool the way he did.” “He fell accidentally. He said so himself.”

“No, I saw it,” insisted Rowan. “He jumped.”

“Well then, how should I know? You’ll have to ask him. Although I don’t think bringing up such an embarrassing moment to the High Blade will work in your favor.” Then he changed the subject. “You seemed to be awfully friendly with one of the party boys. Should I invite more of them for you next time?” “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” said Rowan, blushing in spite of himself. “He’s just a friend from home.” “I see. And you invited him?”

Rowan shook his head. “He signed up without me even knowing. If it was up to me he wouldn’t have been here at all.” “Why not?” said Goddard. “Your friends are my friends.”

Rowan didn’t respond to that. He never knew whether Goddard was serious, or just baiting him.

Rowan’s silence just made Goddard laugh. “Lighten up, boy! It was a party, not the inquisition.” He clapped Rowan on the shoulder and sauntered away. If Rowan had any sense he would have left it at that. But he didn’t.

“People are saying that Scythe Faraday was killed by another scythe.”

Goddard stopped in his tracks, and slowly turned back to Rowan. “Is that what people are saying?” Rowan took a deep breath and shrugged, trying to make it seem like it was nothing, trying to backpedal. But it was too late for that. “It’s just a rumor.” “And you think I might somehow be involved?”

“Are you?” asked Rowan.

Scythe Goddard stepped closer, seeming to look through Rowan’s facade to that dark, frigid place where he now dwelled. “What are you accusing me of, boy?” “Nothing, Your Honor. It’s just a question. To clear the air.” He tried to return the gaze, looking into Goddard’s own cold place, but he found it opaque and unfathomable.

“Consider the air cleared,” Goddard said, with a sarcastic lightness to his voice. “Look around you, Rowan. Do you think, for one instant, that I would jeopardize all of this by breaking the seventh commandment to rid the world of a washed-up old-guard scythe? Faraday gleaned himself because deep down, he knew it would be the most meaningful act he’d have performed in more than a hundred years. The time for his kind is over, and he knew it. And if your little girlfriend is trying to make a case for foul play, she’d better think twice before accusing me, because I could glean her whole family the day their immunity expires.” “That would constitute malice, your honor,” said Rowan with polite resolve. “You could be charged with breaking the second commandment.” For a moment Goddard looked ready to carve up Rowan then and there, but the fire in his eyes was swallowed by that unfathomable depth. “Always looking out for me, aren’t you?” “I do my best, Your Honor.”

Goddard stared at him for a moment more, then said, “Tomorrow you train with pistols against moving targets. You’ll render all but one of your subjects deadish with a single bullet, or I will personally—without bias or malice—glean that party-boy friend of yours.” “What?”

“Was I in any way unclear?”

“No, Your Honor. I . . . I understand.”

“And the next time you make an accusation, you’d better be damn sure it’s true and not just insulting.” Goddard stormed away, letting his robe swell behind him like a cape. But before he was out of earshot he said, “Of course, if I did kill Scythe Faraday, I wouldn’t be so stupid as to admit it to you.” • • •

“He’s just messing with you.”

Scythe Volta hung out with Rowan that evening in the game room, shooting pool. “But I do think you insulted him. I mean, killing another scythe? That never happens.” “I think maybe it did.” Rowan took a shot, and missed the balls completely. His head wasn’t in it. He couldn’t even remember if he was stripes or solids.

“I think maybe Citra is messing with you, too. Have you even considered that?”  Volta took his shot, sinking both a striped ball and a solid, which didn’t help Rowan in knowing what he was going for. “I mean, look at you—you’re a basket case. She’s playing head games with you and you don’t even see it!” “She’s not like that,” said Rowan, choosing a striped ball and sinking it. Apparently it was the right choice, because Volta let him play on.

“People change,” Volta said. “Especially an apprentice. Being a scythe’s apprentice is all about change. Why do you think we give up our names and never use them again? It’s because by the time we’re ordained, we’re completely different people. Professional gleaners instead of candy-ass kids. She’s working you like chewing gum.” “And I broke her neck,” reminded Rowan. “So I guess we’re even.”

“You don’t want to be even. You want to go into Winter Conclave with a clear advantage—or at least feeling like you have one.” Esme popped in just long enough to say, “I play the winner,” then left.

“Best argument for losing ever,” grumbled Volta.

“I should take her on my morning runs,” Rowan suggested. “She could use the exercise. It might get her into better shape.” “True,” said Volta, “but she comes by her weight naturally. It’s genetic.” “How would you know—”

And then Rowan got it. It was staring him in the face, but he was too close to see. “No! You’re kidding me!” Volta shook his head nonchalantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Xenocrates?”

“It’s your shot,” said Volta.

“If it came out that the High Blade had an illegitimate daughter, it would destroy him. He’d be in serious violation.” “You know what would be even worse?” said Volta. “If the daughter that no one knew about got herself gleaned.” Rowan ran a dozen things through this new lens. It all made sense now. The way Esme was spared at the food court, the way she was treated—what was it Goddard had said? That she was the most important person he’d meet that day? The key to the future? “But she won’t get gleaned,” Rowan said. “Not as long as Xenocrates does whatever Goddard says. Like jump in the deep end of a pool.” Volta nodded slowly. “Among other things.”

Rowan took his shot and accidentally sunk the eight ball, ending the game.

“I win,” said Volta. “Damn. Now I’ll have to play Esme.”