Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(44)

Easley’s relief was intense and immediate. How odd, he thought, to have his home stolen, and yet feel relieved.

“On your knees,” Goddard said, and Easley obeyed.

“Kiss it.”

Easley did not hesitate. He planted his lips on the ring, pressing hard, feeling the edge of the setting catch on his lip.

“Now you will go to your office and resign your position, effective immediately.”

This time Easley did say, “Excuse me?”

“Someone else can do your job—I’m sure there are others itching for the opportunity.”

Easley rose, his legs still a bit shaky “But . . . but why? Can’t you just let me and my family leave? We won’t bother you. We’ll take nothing but the clothes on our backs. You’ll never see us again.”

“But alas, I can’t let you leave,” said Scythe Goddard. “I need a new pool boy.”





* * *





I think it’s wise that scythes may not glean one another. It was clearly implemented to prevent Byzantine grabs at power; but where power is concerned there are always those who find ways to grasp for it.

I think it’s also wise that we are allowed to glean ourselves. I will admit there were times when I considered it. When the weight of responsibility felt so heavy, leaving the yoke of the world behind seemed a better alternative. But one thought always stayed my hand from committing that final act.

If not me, who?

Will the scythe who replaces me be as compassionate and fair?

I can accept a world without me in it . . . but I can’t bear the thought of other scythes gleaning in my absence.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



* * *





17


The Seventh Commandment




Citra and Rowan were awakened sometime after midnight by someone pounding on the front door. They left their rooms, meeting in the hallway, and both reflexively glanced toward Scythe Faraday’s closed door. Citra turned the knob, finding it unlocked, and pushed it open just enough to see that the scythe wasn’t there. His bed had not yet been slept in tonight.

It was unusual but not unheard of for him to stay out this late. They had no idea what his occasional late nights were about, and they didn’t want to ask. Curiosity was one of the first casualties of apprenticeship. They had long since learned there were many things they’d rather not know in the life of a scythe.

The relentless pounding continued—not the rapping of knuckles, but the full-fisted heel of a hand.

“So?” said Rowan. “He forgot his keys. So?”

It was the most sensible explanation, and didn’t the most sensible explanation tend to be correct? They approached the door, steeling themselves for admonishment.

How could you not hear me knocking? he would chide. Last I heard, no one’s been deaf for two hundred years.

But when they opened the door, they were faced not with Scythe Faraday, but with a pair of officers. Not common peace officers, but members of the BladeGuard, the sign of the Scythedom clearly emblazoned on the breast of their uniforms.

“Citra Terranova and Rowan Damisch?” one of the guardsmen asked.

“Yes?” answered Rowan. He stepped slightly forward, putting a shoulder in front of Citra in a sort of protective stance. He felt it gallant, but Citra found it irritating.

“You’ll need to come with us.”

“Why?” asked Rowan. “What’s going on?”

“It’s not our place to say,” the second guardsman told them.

Citra pushed Rowan’s protective shoulder to the side. “We’re scythe’s apprentices,” she said, “which means the BladeGuard serves us, and not the other way around. You have no right to take us against our will.” Which was probably untrue, but it gave the guards pause.

And then came a voice from the shadows.

“I’ll handle this.”

Out of the darkness swelled a familiar figure, wholly out of place in Faraday’s neighborhood. The High Blade’s gilded robe did not shine in the dimness of the doorstep. It seemed dull, almost brown.

“Please . . . you must come with me immediately. Someone will be sent for your things.”

As Rowan was in pajamas and Citra a bathrobe, neither was too keen to obey, but they both sensed that their nightclothes were the least of their concerns.

“Where’s Scythe Faraday?” Rowan asked.

The High Blade took a deep breath in, and sighed. “He invoked the seventh commandment,” Xenocrates said. “Scythe Faraday has gleaned himself.”

? ? ?

High Blade Xenocrates was a bloated bundle of contradictions. He wore a robe of rich baroque brocades, yet on his feet were frayed, treadworn slippers. He lived in a simple log cabin—yet the cabin had been reassembled on the rooftop of Fulcrum City’s tallest building. His furniture was mismatched and thrift-store shabby, yet on the floor beneath them were museum-quality tapestries that could have been priceless.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he told Rowan and Citra, who were still too shell-shocked to wrap their minds around what had happened. It was morning now, the three of them having ridden in a private hypertrain to Fulcrum City, and they were now out on a small wooden deck that overlooked a well-tended lawn that ended in a sheer ledge and a seventy-story drop. The High Blade did not want anything to obstruct his view—and anyone stupid enough to trip over the edge would deserve the time and cost of revival.