Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(35)

The first order of business, once everyone was settled, was the Tolling of the Names. One by one, in no particular order, the scythes came to the front to recite various names of people they had gleaned over the past four months.

“We can’t recite them all,” Scythe Faraday told them. “With over three hundred scythes, it would be more than twenty-six thousand names. We are to choose ten. The ones we most remember, the ones who died most valiantly, the ones whose lives were the most notable.”

After each name spoken, an iron bell was rung, solemn and resonant. Rowan was pleased to hear Scythe Faraday reciting Kohl Whitlock’s name as one of his chosen ten.

? ? ?

The Tolling of the Names got old very quickly for Citra. Even reduced to ten names each, the recitation lasted for almost two hours. It was noble that the scythes saw fit to pay homage to the gleaned, but if they only had twelve hours to complete three months worth of business, she didn’t see the sense of it.

There was no written agenda, so there was no way for her and Rowan to know what came next, and Scythe Faraday only explained things as they happened.

“When is our test? Will we be taken somewhere else for it?” Citra asked, but Faraday shushed her.

After the Tolling of the Names, the next order of business was a ceremonial washing of the hands. The scythes all rose and lined up before two basins, one on either side of the rostrum. Again, Citra didn’t see the point. “All this ritual—it’s like something you’d see in a tone cult,” she said when Faraday returned to his seat, hands still damp.

Faraday leaned over to her and whispered. “Don’t let any of the other scythes hear you say that.”

“Do you feel clean after sticking your hands in water that a hundred other hands have been in?”

Faraday sighed. “It brings solace. It binds us as a community. Do not belittle our traditions because one day they may be yours.”

“Or not,” goaded Rowan.

Citra shifted uncomfortably and grumbled. “It just seems like a waste of time.”

Faraday must have known her real gripe was with not knowing when they would be presented to the conclave and taken away for their test. Citra was not a girl who could endure being in the dark for long. Perhaps that’s why Faraday made sure that she was. He was constantly poking at their weaknesses.

Next, a number of scythes were singled out for showing bias in their gleanings. This held some interest for Citra, and gave her some insight as to how it all worked behind the scenes.

One scythe had gleaned too few wealthy people. She was reprimanded and assigned to only glean the rich between now and the next conclave.

Another scythe was found to have racial ratio issues. High on the Spanic, low on the Afric.

“It’s due to the demographic where I live,” he pleaded. “People have a higher percentage of Spanic in their personal ratios.”

High Blade Xenocrates was not swayed. “Then cast a wider net,” he said. “Glean elsewhere.”

He was charged with bringing his ratios back into line or face being disciplined—which consisted of having future gleanings preapproved by the selection committee. Having one’s freedom to glean taken away was a humiliation that no scythe wanted.

Sixteen scythes were taken to task. Ten were warned, six were disciplined. The oddest situation was a scythe who was far too pretty for his own good. He got called out for gleaning too many unattractive people.

“What an idea,” one of the other scythes shouted out. “Imagine what a world it would be if we gleaned only ugly people!”

That brought a round of laughter from the rest of the room.

The scythe tried to defend himself, claiming the old adage, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” but the High Blade wasn’t buying it. This was apparently his third such offense, so he was given permanent probation. He could live as a scythe but could not glean, “Until the next reptilian year,” the High Blade proclaimed.

“That’s crazy,” Citra commented just loud enough for Rowan and Faraday to hear. “No one knows what animals future years will be named after. I mean, the last reptilian year was the Year of the Gecko and that was before I was born.”

“Precisely!” said Faraday with a little bit of guilty glee. “Which means his punishment could end next year or never. Now he’ll spend his time lobbying the office of the Calendaria to name a year after the skink, or Gila monster, or some other reptile that has not yet been used.”

Before they moved on from the disciplinary portion of the morning, there was one more scythe to be called out. It wasn’t a matter of bias, however.

“I have before me an anonymous note,” the High Blade said, “which accuses Honorable Scythe Goddard of malfeasance.”

A rumble throughout the room. Citra saw Scythe Goddard whisper to his inner circle of companions, then stood. “Of what sort of malfeasance am I being accused?’

“Unnecessary cruelty in your gleaning.”

“And yet this accusation comes anonymously!” said Goddard. “I cannot believe that a fellow scythe would show such cowardice. I demand that the accuser reveal his or herself.”

More rumbles around the room. No one stood up, no one took responsibility.

“Well then,” said Goddard, “I refuse to answer to an invisible accuser.”

Citra expected High Blade Xenocrates to press the issue. After all, an accusation from a fellow scythe should be taken seriously—but the High Blade put the paper down and said, “Well, if there’s nothing more, we’ll take our midmorning break.”