Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(49)

The woman looked to Citra, as if she might know what to do, but Citra only shrugged, equally surprised by the offer.

“But . . . attacking a scythe is punishable by gleaning.”

“Not if you have the scythe’s permission. Besides, you’ve already received immunity. I promise there will be no retribution.”

The knife lay on the table between them, and Citra suddenly felt like the pedestrians at the gleaning: frozen just on the other side of some unthinkable event horizon.

Scythe Curie smiled at the woman with genuine warmth. “It’s all right. If you strike me down, my apprentice will simply bring me to the nearest revival center, and in a day or two I’ll be as good as new.”

The woman contemplated the blade, the children contemplated their mother. Finally the woman said, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

Scythe Curie removed the blade from sight. “Well, in that case, on to dessert.”

And the family devoured the chocolate cake with a passion they hadn’t shown for the rest of the meal, as if a great pall had been lifted.

? ? ?

After they were gone, Scythe Curie helped Citra with the dishes. “When you’re a scythe,” she told Citra, “I’m sure you won’t do things my way. ?You won’t do things the way Scythe Faraday did, either. ?You’ll find your own path. It may not bring you redemption, it might not even bring you peace, but it will keep you from despising yourself.”

Then Citra asked a question she had asked before—but this time she suspected she might get an answer.

“Why did you take me on, Your Honor?”

The scythe washed a dish, Citra dried it, and finally Scythe Curie said the oddest thing. “Have you ever heard of a ‘sport’ called cock fighting?”

Citra shook her head.

“Back in the mortal age, unsavories would take two roosters, put them in a small arena, and watch them battle to the death, wagering on the outcome.”

“That was legal?”

“No, but people did it anyway. Life before the Thunderhead was a blend of bizarre atrocities. You weren’t told this—but Scythe Goddard had offered to take both you and Rowan on.”

“He offered to take both of us?”

“Yes. And I knew it would be only so he could pit the two of you against each other day after day for his own amusement, like a cock fight. So I intervened and offered to take you, in order to spare you both Scythe Goddard’s bloody arena.”

Citra nodded in understanding. She chose not to point out that they hadn’t been spared the arena at all. They were still facing a mortal struggle. Nothing could change that.

She tried to imagine what it might have been like had Scythe Curie not stepped forward. The thought of not being separated from Rowan was tempered by the knowledge of whose hand they’d be under. She didn’t even want to imagine how he was faring with Goddard.

As this had turned into an evening of answers, Citra dared to ask the question she had asked so inappropriately on the street, before the man’s body had even gone cold.

“Why did you glean that man today without warning? Didn’t he deserve at least a moment of understanding before your blade?”

This time Scythe Curie was not offended by the question. “Every scythe has his or her method. That happens to be mine. In the Age of Mortality, death would often come with no warning. It is our task to mimic what we’ve stolen from nature—and so that is the face of death I’ve chosen to recreate. My gleanings are always instantaneous and always public, lest people forget what we do, and why we must do it.”

“But what happened to the scythe who gleaned the president? The hero who went after corporate corruption that not even the Thunderhead could rout. I thought the Grande Dame of Death would always glean with greater purpose.”

A shadow seemed to pass over Scythe Curie’s face. A ghost of some sorrow Citra couldn’t even guess at.

“You thought wrong.”





* * *





If you’ve ever studied mortal age cartoons, you’ll remember this one. A coyote was always plotting the demise of a smirking long-necked bird. The coyote never succeeded; instead, his plans always backfired. He would blow up, or get shot, or splat from a ridiculous height.

And it was funny.

Because no matter how deadly his failure, he was always back in the next scene, as if there were a revival center just beyond the edge of the animation cell.

I’ve seen human foibles that have resulted in temporary maiming or momentary loss of life. People stumble into manholes, are hit by falling objects, trip into the paths of speeding vehicles.

And when it happens, people laugh, because no matter how gruesome the event, that person, just like the coyote, will be back in a day or two, as good as new, and no worse—or wiser—for the wear.

Immortality has turned us all into cartoons.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



* * *





19


A Terrible Thing to Do




Citra wasn’t sure what possessed her to bring up the question she had been asked at conclave. Perhaps it was the unexpected closeness she felt to Scythe Curie after seeing her feed the grieving family and listen—truly listen—to their stories about the man she had gleaned.