Scythe

  “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?”