فصل 37

Part Five

SCYTHEHOOD

Scythes Rand and Chomsky have these morbid conversations. They’re twisted, and the first to admit it, but I guess that’s part of their charm. Today they were talking about the method they might use to self-glean one day. Noam said he would climb to the top of an active volcano, and, surrounded by grand ceremony, hurl himself into the lava. Ayn said she would scuba dive the Great Barrier Reef until she either ran out of air or got eaten by a great white. They wanted me to join in their game and tell them how I’d want to go. Call me boring, but I didn’t want to play. Why talk about self-gleaning when it should be the furthest thing from our minds? It’s our job to end other people’s lives, not our own—and I intend to be doing it well into my thousands.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Volta

37

Shaking the Tree

“A tragedy. A terrible tragedy.” High Blade Xenocrates sat on a plush sofa in the grandiose mansion that had, until just two days ago, been occupied by the late Scythe Goddard. Now he faced the apprentice, who seemed much too calm for a young man who had been through such an ordeal.

“Rest assured that the use of fire by any MidMerican scythe will be banned in conclave tomorrow,” he said.

“That’s definitely long overdue,” Rowan told him—speaking not like an apprentice, but more like an equal, which irritated the High Blade. Xenocrates took a good look at Rowan. “You were very lucky to get out of there alive.” Rowan looked him square in the eye. “I was stationed by the outer gate,” he said. “By the time I saw that the fire had gotten out of control, there was nothing I could do; Scythe Goddard and the others were trapped. That place was a maze—they never stood a chance.” Then Rowan paused. He seemed to look as deeply into Xenocrates as Xenocrates was looking into him. “All the other scythes must see me as very bad luck. After all, I’ve gone through two scythes in one year. I suppose this ifies my apprenticeship.” “Nonsense. You’ve come this far,” Xenocrates told him. “Out of respect for Scythe Goddard, you’ll take your final test tonight. I can’t speak for the bejeweling committee, but I have no doubt that, taking into consideration what you’ve been through, they will find in your favor.” “And Citra?”

“If you receive the ring, I trust you’ll glean Miss Terranova, and thus put an end to this unpleasant chapter of our history.” A servant arrived with champagne and finger sandwiches. Xenocrates looked around. The mansion, which had been so full of servants in days past, now seemed to have only this one. The others must have fled the moment they heard that Scythe Goddard and his associates had succumbed to fire. Apparently, Xenocrates wasn’t the only one who felt freed by Goddard’s untimely end.

“Why are you still here when the others have all left?” he asked the servant. “It certainly couldn’t be out of loyalty.” It was Rowan who answered him. “Actually, this estate belongs to him.” “Yes,” said the man. “But I’ll be putting it up for sale. My family and I couldn’t imagine living here anymore.” He put a champagne flute into Xenocrates hand. “But I’m always happy to serve a High Blade.” Apparently, the man had gone from servant to sycophant. Not a very far leap. Once he had left the room, Xenocrates got down to the real reason he had come: To shake the tree and see what, if anything, would fall out. He leaned a little closer to Rowan.

“There are rumors that a scythe—or at least someone who looked like a scythe—came out to address the firefighters.” Rowan didn’t even blink. “I heard that too—there are even some phone videos that people uploaded. Very blurry from all the smoke. Can’t see much of anything.” “Yes, it just adds to the general confusion, I suppose.”

“Will there be much more, Your Excellency? Because I’m pretty exhausted, and if I’m going to face my final test tonight, I’ll need to rest up for it.” “You do know that not everyone in the Scythedom is convinced that it was an accident. We’ve had to begin an investigation, just to be sure.” “Makes sense,” said Rowan.

“So far we were able to identify Scythe Volta and Scythe Chomsky by their rings, and the gems from their robes, which were around their remains. Rubies for Chomsky, citrines for Volta. As for scythe Rand, we’re fairly certain she’s in the debris beneath the huge tuning fork that had fallen through the chapel roof.” “Makes sense,” Rowan said again.

“But finding Scythe Goddard has proven to be a challenge. Of course there were so many Tonists gleaned in the chapel before the fire got out of control, it’s quite an ordeal trying to come up with a positive identification. One would assume that, like the others, Scythe Goddard’s remains would be surrounded by small diamonds, and the larger jewel of his scythe’s ring, even if the setting melted.” “Makes sense,” Rowan said for the third time.

“What doesn’t make sense is that the skeleton we think is his doesn’t have any of those things,” said Xenocrates. “And it also has no skull.” “That’s weird,” said Rowan. “Well, I’m sure it must be there somewhere.” “One would think.”

“Maybe they need to look a little harder.”

Just then, Xenocrates noticed the girl standing at the threshold of the room, lingering there, not sure whether to enter or walk away. Xenocrates couldn’t be sure how much she had heard—or even if it mattered.

“Esme,” said Rowan, “come in. You remember His Excellency, High Blade Xenocrates, don’t you?” “Yah,” she said. “He jumped in the pool. It was funny.”

Xenocrates shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the ordeal. It was not something he cared to remember.

“I’ve made arrangements for Esme to be returned to her mother,” Rowan said. “But maybe you’d like to take her there yourself.” “Me?” said Xenocrates, feigning indifference. “Why would I want to?”

“Because you care about people,” Rowan said with a well-timed wink. “Some more than others.” As the High Blade regarded the daughter that he could never publicly or even privately acknowledge, he melted just the tiniest bit. The boy had planned this, hadn’t he? This Rowan Damisch was a sly one—an admirable trait when properly directed. Perhaps Rowan warranted more attention than the High Blade had given him in the past.

Esme waited to see what would happen, and Xenocrates finally offered her a warm smile. “It would be my pleasure to take you home, Esme.” With that, Xenocrates rose to leave . . . but he couldn’t go just yet. There was still one more thing he had to do. One more decision that was in his power to make. He turned back to Rowan.

“Perhaps I should use my influence to call off the investigation,” he said. “Out of respect for our fallen comrades. Let their memory be untainted by clumsy forensics that might cast aspersions on their legacy.” “Let the dead be dead,” agreed Rowan.

And so an unspoken agreement was reached. The High Blade would cease shaking the tree, and Rowan would keep the High Blade’s secret safe.

“If you need a place to stay once leaving here, Rowan, please know that my door is always open for you.” “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“No, thank you, Rowan.”

Then the High Blade took Esme’s hand and left to return her home.