Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(33)

Citra looked to Rowan again, who was no longer eclipsed by his umbrella. “Am I the only one who’s worried about that?”

Rowan shrugged. “We have immunity until Winter Conclave, and it can’t be revoked—everyone knows that. What’s the worst they could do?”

? ? ?

Some scythes arrived at the Capitol Building on foot, as they had; others in publicars, some in private cars, and several in limousines. There were ropes to hold back spectators on either side of the wide marble staircase leading up to the building, as well as peace officers and members of the BladeGuard—the Scythedom’s elite security force. The arriving scythes were protected from their adoring public, even if the public was not protected from them.

“I despise ‘running the gauntlet.’” Scythe Faraday said, referring to climbing the steps to conclave. “It’s even worse when it’s not raining. The crowd on either side is a dozen people deep.”

Now it was only half that. It never occurred to Citra that people would come out to see scythes arriving at conclave, but then, all celebrity events drew onlookers, so why not a gathering of scythes?

Some of the arriving scythes gave obligatory waves, others played to the crowd, kissing babies and randomly granting immunity. Citra and Rowan followed Faraday’s lead, which was to ignore the crowd completely.

There were dozens of other scythes in the entry vestibule. They removed their raincoats to reveal robes of all colors, all textures. It was a rainbow that summoned forth anything but thoughts of death. This, Citra realized, was intentional. Scythes wished to be seen as the many facets of light, not of darkness.

Through a grand arch lay a grander chamber beneath the central dome—a rotunda where hundreds of scythes greeted one another, engaging in casual conversation around an elaborate breakfast spread in the center. Citra wondered what it was that scythes talked about. The tools of gleaning? The weather? The chafing of their robes? It was intimidating enough to be in the presence of a single scythe. To be surrounded by hundreds was enough to make one crumble.

Scythe Faraday leaned over and spoke to them in a hushed voice. “See there?” He pointed to a bald, heavily bearded man. “Scythe Archimedes—one of the world’s oldest living scythes. He’ll tell you he was there in the Year of the Condor, when the Scythedom was first formed, but it’s a lie. He’s not that old! And over there . . .” He pointed to a woman with long silver hair in a pale lavender robe. “That’s Scythe Curie.”

Citra gasped. “The Grande Dame of Death?”

“So they say.”

“Is it true she gleaned the last president, before the Thunderhead was given control?” Citra asked.

“And his cabinet, yes.” He looked at her—perhaps a bit wistfully, Citra thought. “Her actions were quite controversial back in the day.”

The woman caught them glancing her way and turned to them. Citra chilled when her piercing gray eyes zeroed in on her. Then the woman smiled at the three of them, nodded, and returned to her conversation.

There was a group of four or five scythes closer to the assembly chamber entrance, the doors of which were still closed. They wore bright robes studded with gems. The center of their attention was a scythe in royal blue whose robe contained what appeared to be diamonds. He said something and the others laughed a little too heartily for it to be anything but sycophantic.

“Who’s that?” Citra asked.

Scythe Faraday’s expression took a turn toward sour.

“That,” he said, not even trying to hide his distaste, “is Scythe Goddard, and his company is best avoided.”

“Goddard . . . isn’t he the master of mass gleanings?” Rowan asked.

Faraday looked at him a bit concerned. “Where did you hear that?”

Rowan shrugged. “I have a friend who’s obsessed with that kind of stuff, and he hears things.”

Citra gasped, realizing she had heard of Goddard, not by name, just by deed. Or, more accurately, rumor because there was never any official report. But like Rowan said, you hear things. “Is he the one who gleaned an entire airplane?”

“Why?” asked Faraday, giving her a cold, accusing eye. “Does that impress you?”

Citra shook her head. “No, the opposite.” But she couldn’t help but be a bit dazzled by the way the man’s robe caught the light. Everyone was—which must have been his intent.

And yet his was not the most ostentatious robe on display. Moving through the crowd was a scythe in a lavishly gilded robe. The man was so large, his robe seemed a bit like a golden tent.

“Who’s the fat guy?” Citra asked.

“He looks important,” said Rowan.

“Indeed,” said Scythe Faraday. “‘The fat guy,’ as you call him, is the High Blade. The most powerful man in the MidMerican Scythedom. He presides over conclave.”

The High Blade worked the crowd like a great gaseous planet bending space around it. He could have tweaked his nanites to eliminate at least some of his girth, but clearly he had chosen not to. The choice was a bold statement and his size made him an imposing figure. When he saw Faraday, he excused himself from his current conversation and made his way toward them.

“Honorable Scythe Faraday, always a pleasure to see you.” He used both his hands to grip Faraday’s in what was meant to be a heartfelt greeting, but felt forced and artificial.