فصل 21

My fellow WestMerican scythes,

As your High Blade, I stand here to quell your fears and misgivings about our relationship with MidMerica. The simple truth is the world is not the same place it was when we lost Endura. Sibilant Tonists brazenly defy our authority, and the Thunderhead’s continued silence has left billions without direction. What the world needs from us is strength and conviction.

Signing official articles of alignment with the MidMerican scythedom is a step in that direction. High Blade Goddard and I are in perfect agreement that all scythes should be free to glean, unfettered by outdated customs that would limit us.

Goddard and I shall move forward as equals, along with the High Blades of NorthernReach, EastMerica, and Mexiteca, who will shortly be signing their own articles of alignment.

I assure you that we are not surrendering our sovereignty; we are merely affirming our parallel goals: the mutual health and continued enlightenment of our respective scythedoms.

—Her Excellency, High Blade Mary Pickford of WestMerica, Vernal Conclave address, May 28th, Year of the Quokka 21 Compromised

More than two years after Loriana Barchok gave DNA approval to the Thunderhead’s secret undertaking, and a year after WestMerica officially aligned with MidMerica, Scythe Sydney Possuelo sat across the breakfast table from Scythe Anastasia, trying to bring her up to speed on the state of the world.

The more she heard, the more diminished her appetite became. Anastasia was not ready to face a world where Goddard was the prevailing power over an entire continent.

“While we in Amazonia have been resisting him,” Possuelo told her, “some other South Merican regions are joining with him—and now I hear he is making serious overtures to PanAsia.” Possuelo wiped a spot of egg yolk from his mouth, and Citra wondered how he could have an appetite. The best she could do was move food around her plate in an attempt to be gracious. She supposed it must always be this way; once the unthinkable settles into being the norm, you become numb to it. She never wanted to be that numb.

“What does he want that he doesn’t already have?” she asked. “He’s gotten rid of the gleaning quota, so that should satisfy his lust for killing—and now he’s in control of five North Merican regions instead of just one—that should be enough for anyone.” Possuelo offered her a patronizing smile that she found infuriating. “Your naivete is refreshing, Anastasia. But the truth is, power for power’s sake is a consuming addiction. He would devour the world whole, and still be unsatisfied.” “There’s got to be a way to stop him!”

Possuelo smiled again. This time it wasn’t patronizing; it was conspiratorial. She liked that a whole lot better. “That’s where you come in. The return of Scythe Anastasia from the dead will gain people’s attention,” he said. “It might even breathe life back into the splintered and demoralized old guard. Then maybe we’ll be able to fight him.” Citra sighed and shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. “Do people—ordinary people—accept the changes Goddard’s brought?” “For most people, scythe business is a mystery. Their only desire is to stay out of the way and avoid being gleaned.” “But they’ve got to see what’s happening and what he’s doing…”

“They do… and, among the masses, he is feared, but he is also respected.” “What about his mass gleanings? I’m sure he’s doing even more of those. Doesn’t that bother people?” Possuelo deflated at the thought. “He chooses his mass gleanings carefully—only selecting unregistered, unprotected groups that the population at large doesn’t mind seeing gleaned.” Citra looked down at her uneaten food. She fought the urge to hurl it against the wall, just for the satisfaction of hearing the plates shatter. Targeted gleanings were not something new in history. In the past, however, they were quickly punished by one’s High Blade. But when the highest authority was the perpetrator, who was there to stop it? Rowan was the only one who dealt death to power, and it wasn’t likely that Possuelo would allow him to continue doing so.

Goddard would find more and more vulnerable populations to target, and as long as enough people accepted it, he’d get away with it.

“The news isn’t as dismal as it seems,” Possuelo told her. “If it’s of any consolation to you, we here in Amazonia still hold to the spirit of the Scythe Commandments, as do many other scythedoms. We estimate that half the world, maybe more, is against Goddard’s ideas and methods. Even within regions he controls, there are those who would resist him if they could. If you can believe it, Tonists are proving to be a substantial source of resistance ever since their prophet was gleaned.” “Prophet?”

“There are those who believe the Thunderhead still spoke to him. But what does it matter now?” So Goddard had everything in his favor. It was what Marie had feared—what they all had feared. What Scythe Asimov had called “the worst of all possible worlds.” Now Marie was gone, and hope was at a premium.

As she thought of Scythe Curie, she felt emotions erupt in her that she’d kept down until now. Marie’s last act had been to save Citra and Rowan. A truly selfless act worthy of one of the noblest post-mortals who ever lived. And now she was gone. Yes, it was years ago, but for Citra the grief was still raw and bleeding. She turned away from Possuelo to wipe her tears, but found that the moment she did, those tears exploded into sobs that she couldn’t hope to control.

Possuelo came around the table to comfort her. She didn’t want it—didn’t want him to see her this way—but she also knew the pain was not something she had to bear alone.

“It’s all right, meu anjo,” Possuelo said, his voice soothing and paternal. “As you said, hope is merely misplaced, and I believe you are the one to find it.” “ ’Meu anjo’?” she said. “Sydney, I’m nobody’s angel.”

“Ah, but you are,” Possuelo said. “Because an angel is what the world needs if we are to ever bring Goddard down.” Citra let her grief flow; then, when she felt spent, she wrangled her sorrow back in, wiping her tears. She needed this moment. Needed to say her goodbye to Marie. And now that she had, she felt just a little bit different. She felt, for the first time since her revival, less like Citra Terranova and more like Scythe Anastasia.

Two days later, she was moved from the revival center to a more secure location, which turned out to be an old fortress on the easternmost shore of Amazonia. A place that was desolate, and yet beautiful in its desolation. It was like being in a castle on the face of the moon, if the moon had been blessed with oceans.

Modern amenities juxtaposed with ancient stone bulwarks made the place both comfortable and intimidating at once. Her suite had a bed fit for a queen. Possuelo had let it slip that Rowan was also here, although he probably wasn’t being given quite the same royal treatment.

“How is he?” she asked Possuelo, trying to sound less concerned than she was. Possuelo visited her daily and spent considerable time with her, continuing to brief her on the state of the world, informing her bit by bit of the many things that had changed since Endura.

“Rowan is being suitably cared for,” Possuelo told her. “I have seen to it personally.” “But he’s not here with us—which means you still see him as a criminal.” “The world sees him as a criminal,” Possuelo said. “How I see him doesn’t matter.” “It matters to me.”

Possuelo took his time in answering. “Your assessment of Rowan Damisch is clearly blurred by love, meu anjo, and therefore not entirely reliable. However, it is not entirely unreliable, either.” She was given free run of the fortress, as long as she had an escort everywhere she went. She explored with the pretext of curiosity, but really she was just looking for Rowan. One of her escorts was an annoying junior scythe by the name of Peixoto, who was so starstruck by her, she feared he might just burst into flames if he as much touched her robe. As she moved through a dank space that must have been an ancient communal hall, she had to say something, because he just stood there by the stone steps, gawking at every move she made.

“You can put your eyes back in your head now,” she told him.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor—it’s just still hard to believe that I’m laying eyes on the actual Scythe Anastasia,” Peixoto said.

“Well, laying eyes on me doesn’t necessarily mean popping them out of their sockets first.” “I’m sorry, Your Honor, it won’t happen again.”

“It’s still happening.”

“I’m sorry.”

Now Peixoto cast his eyes down as if looking at her was like gazing at the sun. It was almost as bad as the staring. Was this the kind of ridiculous treatment she’d have to deal with? It was bad enough when she was just a scythe. Now she was also a living legend, which apparently came with a brand-new bag of nauseating veneration.

“If you don’t mind me asking…,” Peixoto said as they spiraled up a narrow stairwell that led, like so many others, nowhere, “what was it like?” “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“To be there for the sinking of Endura,” he said. “To watch it go down.” “Sorry, but I was too busy trying to survive to take pictures,” she said, more than a little annoyed by the question.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I was only an apprentice when it happened. Since then Endura has fascinated me. I have spoken with several survivors—ones who made it out by boat or plane in those last minutes. They say it was spectacular.” “Endura was a very impressive place,” Anastasia had to admit.

“No—I meant the sinking. I hear the sinking was spectacular.”

Anastasia didn’t even know what to say to that, so she answered with silence. And when she next saw Possuelo, she asked if Peixoto could be assigned elsewhere.

After a week at the old fortress, things took a sudden and unexpected turn. In the middle of the night, Possuelo came into Anastasia’s chambers with several BladeGuards to wake her out of yet another dreamless sleep.

“Dress quickly—we must leave in extreme haste,” he said.

“I’ll be hasty in the morning,” she told him, annoyed at having been woken, and too bleary to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

“We’ve been compromised!” Possuelo told her. “A delegation of scythes has arrived from North Merica, and I assure you, they are not here to welcome you back to the world.” It was more than enough to get her out of bed. “Who would have told—” But even before she formed the question, she knew the answer. “Scythe Peixoto!” “You were far more intuitive than I when it came to that desgraçado. I should have seen his intentions.” “You’re a trusting man.”

“I am a fool.”

After she slipped on her robe, she noticed someone in the room she hadn’t seen upon waking. At first she thought the individual was a man, but as the figure stepped into the light, Anastasia realized that the visitor was a woman. Or not. Each moment, each shift of the light, changed the impression.

“Anastasia, this is Jerico Soberanis—the captain of the salvage ship that found you. Jerico will get you to safety.” “What about Rowan?” Citra asked.

“I’ll do what I can for him, but now you must go!”

Rowan was awakened by the sound of his lock turning. It was still dark outside. This was not part of his routine. The moon shone through the slit in the stone, casting a strip of light low against a far wall. When he had gone to sleep, the moon had not yet risen, and by the angle of the light it cast, he suspected it must be just before dawn. He feigned sleep as figures quietly filed into the room. The hallway they had entered from was dark, and they had only narrow beams of flashlights to guide them. Rowan had the advantage of eyes that were already adjusted to the dark. They, however, had the advantage of numbers. He remained still, keeping his eyes open to the narrowest slit—just enough to see the figures through his eyelashes.

It was a cast of unknown characters—but not entirely unknown. The first indication that they were interlopers was the darkness, and the fact that one seemed to be searching for a light switch. Whoever they were, they clearly didn’t know that the light in his room, and probably the hallway as well, was controlled remotely from some other location in the fortress. Then he caught the glint of the ceremonial dagger that members of the BladeGuard wore on their belts. But most telling were two robed figures, and the fact that their robes were speckled with gems that glittered in the moonlight like stars.

“Wake him,” said one of the scythes. Her voice was unfamiliar, but that didn’t matter. The jewels on her robe meant that she was a new-order scythe. A follower of Goddard. And that made her, and everyone in her company, the enemy.

As a guard leaned over him, preparing to slap him awake, Rowan reached out and grabbed the ceremonial dagger from the guard’s waist. He didn’t use it against the guard, because no one would care much if a guard was rendered deadish. Instead, Rowan turned the blade on the nearest jewel-laden scythe. Not the woman who had spoken, but the one foolish enough to leave himself in striking distance. Rowan severed his jugular in a single swing of the blade, then bolted for the door.

It worked. The scythe wailed and flailed and gushed, creating an impressive distraction. All those present were instantly flustered and unsure whether to go after Rowan or to assist the dying scythe.

This, Rowan knew, was a fight for his life. The world saw him as the beast who sank Endura. He had been told very little about how things had changed while he and Citra were at the bottom of the sea, but he knew that much. His alleged villainy had been drilled into humanity’s collective consciousness, and there was no hope of changing that. For all he knew, even the Thunderhead believed it. His only option was to escape.

As he raced down the hallway, the lights came on, which would assist his pursuers as much as it would him. He had never been out of his cell, so he had no way of knowing the layout of the ancient fortress, which was not designed for escape. If anything, it was a maze designed to confound anyone trapped within it.

The effort to capture him was disorganized and haphazard. But if they had managed to turn on the lights, that probably meant they had access to the security cameras and at least a rudimentary knowledge of the fortress’s layout.

The first few guards and scythes he encountered were easily dispatched. Scythes, while well trained for combat, rarely had to face aggressors as skilled in killcraft as Rowan. As for BladeGuards, they were, much like their daggers, decorative. These ancient stone walls that had not seen blood for countless centuries were well fed today.

Had this been an ordinary structure, escape would have been much easier for Rowan, but Rowan was constantly finding himself at dead-end hallways.

And what of Citra?

Was she already in their grip? Would these scythes treat her any better than they treated him? Maybe she was running through these passages, too. Maybe he would find her, and they could escape together. It was that thought that propelled him and fueled him, driving him faster through the stone labyrinth.

After the fourth winding dead end, he doubled back to find his path blocked by more than a dozen guards and scythes. He tried to fight his way through them, but as much as he would have liked to believe that Scythe Lucifer was invincible, Rowan Damisch was not. The dagger was pulled from his hand, and he was apprehended, forced to the floor, and his hands were shackled by a metallic restraining device too absurdly offensive to be anything but a relic of the mortal age.

Once he was in hand, a scythe approached.

“Turn him to face me,” she ordered. She was the one who had first spoken in his cell. The one in charge of this operation. He only faintly recognized her. She wasn’t one of the MidMerican scythes, but Rowan knew he had seen her face before.

“All those who you so viciously rendered deadish here shall be revived.” She was so full of fury and rancor, spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke. “They shall be revived and stand witness against you.” “If I had meant to end them permanently,” Rowan said, “I would have.”

“Nevertheless, your crimes today have earned you death many times over.” “You mean in addition to the deaths I’ve already earned? Sorry, but they all begin to blur together.” It only served to infuriate her more, as was his intention. “Not just death,” she told him, “but pain. Extreme pain—which has been approved by the North Merican Overblade under certain circumstances—and your circumstances warrant a great deal of punitive suffering.” It wasn’t the mention of pain that troubled him, but the idea of a “North Merican Overblade.” “Render him deadish so that he gives us no more trouble,” she ordered one of the guards. “We’ll revive him later.” “Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Excellency?” Rowan said. Only High Blades were referred to that way. Then it finally occurred to him who she was. “High Blade Pickford of WestMerica?” he said, incredulous. “Does Goddard control your region, too?” The redness of her furious face gave him his answer.

“I wish I didn’t have to revive you at all,” Pickford spat, “but that’s not my decision to make.” Then she turned to the guards holding him. “Make it bloodless—there’s more than enough mess today.” Then one of the guards crushed his windpipe, delivering Rowan one more in a long line of unpleasant deaths.

Scythe Possuelo unsheathed his blade the moment he saw scythes who were not wearing the traditional green of the Amazonian scythedom. Never mind that scythe-on-scythe violence was forbidden. It would be worth whatever punishment he might receive. But when the High Blade of WestMerica appeared behind the other scythes, he thought better of it. He quickly sheathed his blade, but kept his tongue sharp.

“By whose authority do you violate the jurisdiction of the Amazonian scythedom?” he demanded.

“We need no permission to apprehend a global criminal,” said High Blade Pickford, wielding her voice just as powerfully as any blade. “On whose authority were you protecting him?” “We were detaining him, not protecting him.”

“So you say. Well, he’s not your concern anymore,” she told him. “An ambudrone under our control has already carried him to our plane.” “There will be consequences if you proceed with this action!” Possuelo threatened. “I assure you.” “I couldn’t care less,” Pickford said. “Where is Scythe Anastasia?”

“She’s no criminal.”

“Where is she?”

“Not here,” Possuelo finally told her.

And then from the shadows came that weasel Peixoto—who had clearly sold them out to gain Goddard’s favor.

“He’s lying,” said Peixoto. “They’re keeping her in a room at the end of this corridor.” “Search all you want,” said Possuelo, “but you won’t find her. She’s long gone.” Pickford motioned to the other scythes and BladeGuards in her company to search. They flooded past Possuelo, peering into every room and niche they passed. He allowed it, because he knew they’d find nothing.

“I’ve already notified my High Blade of this intrusion,” Possuelo said, “and a new edict has just been given. Any North Merican scythe caught on Amazonian territory shall be captured and forced to self-glean.” “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I suggest you leave before reinforcements arrive to carry out the edict. And be so kind as to let your so-called Overblade know that neither he, nor any puppet-scythe working on his behalf, is welcome in Amazonia.” Pickford indignantly stared him down, but he did not yield. Finally, her cold facade seemed to give way. Now Possuelo had a glimpse of what was truly beneath it. She was tired. Defeated.

“Very well,” she said. “But believe me, if Goddard is determined to find her, he will.” Her entourage returned, unsuccessful in their search, and she ordered them to leave, but Possuelo was not ready to let her go yet.

“What happened to you, Mary?” he asked, and the honest disappointment in his voice was hard for her to ignore. “Just last year, didn’t you say that you would never surrender your sovereignty to Goddard? And now look at you, a hemisphere from home doing his bidding. You used to be an honorable woman, Mary. A good scythe…” “I still am a good scythe,” she said. “But times have changed, and if we don’t change with them, we’ll be trampled by what’s coming. You can take that to your High Blade.” Then she cast her eyes down, withdrawing into herself for a moment. “Too many friends in the WestMerican scythedom chose to glean themselves rather than submit to Goddard’s new order. They saw it as courageous defiance. I see it as weakness. I vowed never to be so weak.” Then she turned and strode out, the long train of her sheer silk robe too weighed down with opals to flow gracefully behind her, as it once did. Now it just dragged on the ground.

Only after Pickford was gone did Possuelo dare relax. Word had come that Anastasia and Captain Soberanis had made it to the port, and the Spence was running dark into the Atlantic, just as it had the night it brought the vault up from the depths. The good captain was resourceful and trustworthy. Possuelo had faith that Jerico would successfully spirit Anastasia across the sea to friends who might keep her safer than he’d been able to.

As for the boy, no doubt Pickford would bring him to Goddard. Possuelo’s feelings were mixed. He wasn’t sure if he believed Anastasia’s claims that Rowan was innocent. Even if he hadn’t sunk Endura, he’d ended more than a dozen scythes—and whether those scythes deserved to be ended was irrelevant. Mortal-age vigilantism had no place in the world. All scythes could agree on that—which meant that, regardless of philosophy, there wasn’t a High Blade in the world who would allow him to live.

It was, Possuelo decided, a mistake to have revived him at all. He should have put the boy back in that vault and returned it to the deep. Because now Rowan Damisch would be toyed with by the Overblade without the slightest bit of mercy.