فصل 36

36

The Scope of Missed Opportunity

Goddard’s fury could not be quelled.

“An inquest! I should shred that little turquoise minx until there’s not enough left of her to revive!” Rand stormed down the capitol steps in Goddard’s wake as they left conclave, putting her own fury aside to manage his. “We need to meet with sympathetic scythes tonight,” she told him. “They haven’t seen you for a year, and the scythedom is still reeling from your reappearance.” “I have no interest in communing with scythes, friendly or otherwise,” he told her. “There’s only one thing I want to do right now, and it is long overdue!” Then he turned to the die-hard onlookers who had waited until the end of conclave to get a glimpse of the scythes. From his robe, Goddard pulled out a dagger and advanced on a man who was oblivious to what was coming. A single upward stroke and the man was gleaned, his blood staining the stairs. Those around him began to scurry like rats, but he caught the closest one. A woman. He didn’t care who she was, or what, if anything, she contributed to the world. She meant only one thing to Goddard. Her winter coat was thick, but the blade penetrated it without much resistance. Her scream was cut short as she fell to the ground.

“Goddard!” shouted one of the other scythes leaving conclave. Scythe Bohr—an irritatingly neutral man who never took a side on anything. “Have you no shame? Show some decorum!” Goddard turned on him with a vengeance, and Bohr backed away as if Goddard might attack him. “Haven’t you heard?” Goddard yelled. “I’m not Goddard at all. I’m only seven percent of myself!” And he took out another bystander running down the steps.

It was all Ayn could do to pull him away, and get him to their limousine.

“Are you done?” she said, as they rode away, not hiding her annoyance with him. “Or should we stop at a bar, have a drink, and glean all the customers?” He pointed at her, just as he had pointed at Xenocrates. Goddard’s dread finger of warning. Tyger’s finger, she thought, but kicked the thought out of her mind as quickly as she could.

“Your attitude is not appreciated!” he growled.

“You’re here because of me!” she reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”

He took a moment to calm himself down. “Have the scythedom offices find the families of the people I just gleaned. If they want immunity they’ll have to come to me. I’m done with Fulcrum City until the day I return from the inquest as High Blade.” • • •

Rowan was woken at the earliest light of dawn by Goddard’s mercenary guards.

“Get yourself ready for a match,” they told him, and five minutes later they took him out to the veranda, where Rand and Goddard were waiting. While Rand was in her robe, Goddard was barefoot and shirtless, wearing loose shorts that were the same shade of blue as his robe, but mercifully, were not studded with diamonds. He had not seen Goddard since that first day he came into his room, barely able to move in that wheeled chair contraption. That was just over a week ago, and now he commanded Tyger’s body as if it were Goddard’s own. Rowan thought he might have been sick if there was anything in his stomach, but he did not let his emotions show this time. If Goddard fed on his misery, then Rowan would not provide him any sustenance.

Rowan knew what day this was—fireworks outside a week ago had marked the New Year.  Today was the eighth of January. Conclave was yesterday. Which meant his immunity had expired.

“Back from conclave already?” Rowan said, feigning to be flip. “I figured you’d spend a few days playing up the whole resurrection thing.” Goddard ignored him. “I’ve been looking forward to sparring with you,” Goddard said, and the two began to slowly circle each other.

“Sure,” said Rowan. “It will be like old times, back at the mansion. I miss the good old days, don’t you?” Goddard’s lip twitched just a bit, but he smiled.

“Did things go the way you wanted?” Rowan taunted. “Did the scythedom welcome you back with open arms?” “Shut up!” said Rand. “You’re here to fight, not to talk.”

“Oooh,” said Rowan. “Sounds to me like things didn’t go according to plan! What happened? Did Xenocrates throw you out? Did they refuse to accept you back?” “On the contrary, they embraced us with warm arms,” said Goddard. “Especially after I told them how my pathetic apprentice betrayed us and tried to kill us. How poor Chomsky and Volta were the first victims of so-called Scythe Lucifer. I promised them I’d deliver you right into their angry little hands. But not until I’m ready, of course.” Rowan knew that wasn’t the whole story. He knew when Tyger was lying. He could hear it in his voice, and that hadn’t changed now that the words were Goddard’s. But whatever really happened, he wouldn’t get it out of Goddard.

“Ayn shall referee the match,” Goddard said. “And I intend to be merciless.” Then Goddard launched himself forward. Rowan did nothing to defend himself. Nothing to dodge the attack. Goddard took him down. Pinned him. Ayn called the match for Goddard. It was far too easy—and Goddard knew it.

“You think you can get away with not fighting back?”

“If I wish to throw a Bokator match, that’s my prerogative,” Rowan said.

Goddard snarled at him. “You have no prerogatives here.” He attacked again, and once more, Rowan fought his own self-defense instincts, and let his body go limp. Goddard took him down like a rag doll, and he raged in fury.

“Fight back, damn it!”

“No,” Rowan said calmly. He glanced to Rand, who actually had a slight grin, although she suppressed it the moment he looked over.

“I will glean everyone who is dear to you if you don’t spar with me!” Goddard said.

Rowan shrugged. “You can’t. Scythe Brahms already gleaned my father, and the rest of my family has immunity for another eleven months. And you can’t take out Citra—she’s already proven herself too smart for that.” Goddard lunged at him again. This time Rowan just dropped to the ground in cross-legged position.

Goddard paced away. Punched a wall. Left a dent.

“I know what will get him to fight,” Rand said, and stepped forward, addressing Rowan. “Do your best against Goddard,” she said, “and we’ll tell you what happened in conclave.” “You’ll do no such thing!” Goddard insisted.

“Do you want a real match or not?”

Goddard hesitated, then gave in. “Very well.”

Rowan stood up. He had no reason to believe they would keep their word, but as much as he wanted to deny Goddard his match, Rowan also wanted the chance to take him down. To show no more mercy for him than he intended to show for Rowan.

Rand started a new match. The two circled. Again, Goddard made the first move, but this time Rowan countered with a dodge and a well-placed elbow. Goddard smiled now, realizing that the match was truly on.

As they brutally battled, Rowan realized that Goddard was right. Tyger’s brawn and Goddard’s brain were a hard combination to beat. But Rowan was not going to let Goddard have his day. Not now. Not ever. When it came to Bokator, Rowan did his best under pressure, and this time was no exception. He executed a series of moves that left Goddard one beat behind the curve, until Rowan slammed him to the ground and pinned him there.

“Yield!” Rowan shouted.

“No!”

“Yield!” Rowan demanded.

But Goddard did not, so Rand had to call the match.

Then, as soon as Rowan let Goddard go, Goddard got up, strode to a cabinet, pulled out a pistol, and shoved it into Rowan’s ribs. “New rules,” he said, then pulled the trigger, blasting a bullet that shredded through Rowan’s heart and shattered a lamp across the room.

Darkness began to overtake him, but before it did, he let loose a single laugh.

“Cheater,” he said, and died.

• • •

“Uh . . . foul,” said Scythe Rand.

Goddard put the pistol into her hand. “Never end a match until I say so,” he said.

“So that’s it, then?” she asked. “Was that a gleaning?”

“Are you serious? And miss my chance to hurl him at the feet of the Grandslayers at my inquest? Take him to an off-grid revival center. I want him back as soon as possible so I can kill him again.”  Then Goddard strode off.

Once he was gone, Rand looked down at Rowan, deadish as deadish gets. His eyes were open, and his lips were still set in a defiant grin. She had once admired him—was jealous of him even—because of the attention Goddard had given him during his apprenticeship. She knew he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as she or Goddard. She suspected he might break—but she never expected he would break so spectacularly. Goddard had no one but himself to blame, putting his trust in a boy who Scythe Faraday chose for his compassion.

Ayn didn’t put much stock in compassion. Never had. She didn’t understand it, and resented those who did. Now Rowan Damisch would be well-punished for his conceited ideals.

She turned to see the guards just standing there, not sure what to do.

“What’s wrong with you? You heard Scythe Goddard! Take him to be revived.” • • •

Once Rowan was carried off and the unfazed house bot had scrubbed the mat clean of blood, Ayn sat in a chair that looked out at the spectacular view.  Although Goddard never praised her for much of anything, she knew she had chosen the right place to stage their return. The Texan scythedom left them alone as long as they didn’t start gleaning there, and the Thunderhead had cameras only in public locations, which made it easier to remain out of its sight. On top of that, it was easier to find off-grid situations, such as the revival center that Rowan was on his way to. They asked no questions as long as they were paid—and although scythes were handed everything for free in this world, off-grid was off-grid. She detached one of the lower emeralds near the hem of her robe and handed it to the guard to give the revival center as payment for their work on Rowan. It was more than enough to cover the cost.

Ayn had never been a schemer. She tended to live in the moment, a student of impulse, motivated by the power of whim. As a child, her parents had called her a will-o’-the-wisp, and she enjoyed being a lethal one. Now, however, she had a taste of being the architect of a long-term plan. She thought it would be easy to step aside and let Goddard take the lead again once he was restored—for what had been done to him was much more of a restoration than a revival—but she was finding his temper and his uncharacteristic impulsiveness in need of balance. Was this the impulsiveness of the 93 percent of him that was Tyger Salazar? There was arrogance in both of them, that was certain. But Tyger’s naivety was replaced by Goddard’s temper. Ayn had to admit she had found Tyger’s guileless, callow nature to be refreshing. But innocence will always be ground up in the gearwork of a greater design—and Goddard was, by Ayn’s estimation, forging a great design that truly excited her. A scythedom void of restraints. A world of whim without consequence.

But dispensing with Tyger Salazar had been much harder than she’d ever expected it would be.

When the guards returned, they informed her that Rowan would be revived in about thirty-six hours, and she went to tell Goddard. She caught him stepping out of the bathroom, having just taken a shower. He was wrapped only minimally in a towel.

“A bracing match,” he said. “Next time, I’ll beat him.”

That gave her a dark shiver: It was what Tyger always said. “He’ll be back in a day and a half,” she told him, but he was already on to the next topic of conversation.

“I’m beginning to see opportunity in our situation, Ayn,” he said. “The old guard doesn’t realize it—but they may have handed me a pearl within this nasty oyster. I want you to find me all the best engineers.” “You’ve gleaned all the best engineers,” she reminded him.

“No, not rocket scientists and propulsion engineers—I need structural engineers. Those who understand the dynamics of large structures. And programmers, too. But programmers who are not beholden to either the scythedom or the Thunderhead.” “I’ll ask around.”

He took a moment to admire himself in a tall mirror—then caught her eyes in the mirror, as well—seeing the way she was looking at him. Ayn resolved not to look away. He turned to her and took a few steps closer.

“You find this physique to your liking?”

She forced a sly grin. “When have I not enjoyed a well-sculpted man?”

“And have you . . . enjoyed this body?”

Finally, she could not hold his gaze and looked away. “No. Not this one.” “No? That’s not like you, Ayn.”

Now she felt like the one disrobed. Still, she dissembled with her grin. “Maybe I wanted to wait until it was yours.” “Hmm,” he said, like it was no more than a curiosity. “I do notice that this body expresses quite an attraction to you.” Then he brushed past her, put on his robe, and strode out, leaving her to lament the full scope of missed opportunity.