Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(54)

“Doesn’t the eighth commandment say that a scythe can’t own anything but his robe, ring, and journal?”

“Correct,” said Scythe Goddard brightly. “And I own none of this. The food is donated by generous benefactors, the guests are here by choice, and this fine estate has been graciously loaned to me for as long as I choose to grace its halls.”

Upon the mention of the estate, a man cleaning the pool looked up at them for a moment before returning to his labors.

“You should reread the commandments,” Scythe Goddard said. “You’ll find that nothing in them demands that scythes shun the creature comforts that make life worth living. That bleak interpretation by old-guard scythes is a relic from another time.”

Rowan did not offer any further opinion on the subject. It was Scythe Faraday’s humble and serious “old-guard” nature that had made an impression on Rowan. Had he been approached by Scythe Goddard with enticements of rock star glamour in exchange for the taking of lives, he would have declined. But Faraday was dead, and Rowan was here, looking out on strangers that were here for his benefit.

“If it’s my party, shouldn’t it have people I know?”

“A scythe is a friend to the world. Open your arms and embrace it.” It seemed Scythe Goddard had an answer for everything. “Your life is about to change, Rowan Damisch,” he said, waving his arm to indicate the pool and the partiers and the servants and the elaborate spread of food just past the shallow end that kept being replenished. “In fact, it already has.”

Among the party guests was a girl who seemed markedly out of place. She was young—nine or ten at the most, and completely oblivious to the party around her as she frolicked in the shallow end of the pool.

“It looks like one of your guests brought their kid to the party,” Rowan commented.

“That,” said Goddard, “is Esme, and you would be wise to treat her well. She is the most important person you will meet today.”

“How so?”

“That chubby little girl is the key to the future. So you’d better hope she likes you.”

Rowan would have continued picking at Goddard’s enigmatic responses, but his attention was grabbed by a beautiful party girl approaching in a bikini that seemed almost painted on. Rowan realized a moment too late that he was staring. She grinned and he blushed, looking away.

“Ariadne, would you be so kind as to give my apprentice a massage?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said the girl.

“Uh . . . maybe later,” Rowan said.

“Nonsense,” said the scythe. “You need to loosen up, and Ariadne has magical hands skilled in Swedish technique. Your body will thank you.”

She took Rowan by the hand, and that killed any resistance. He rose and let himself be led away.

“If our young man is pleased by your efforts,” Scythe Goddard called after them, “I will allow you to kiss my ring.”

As Ariadne led him to the massage tent, Rowan thought, In eight months I am going to die. So perhaps he could allow himself a little indulgence on the way.





* * *





I am disturbed by those who revere us far more than those who disdain us. Too many put us on a pedestal. Too many long to be one of us—and knowing that they can never be makes their longing even greater, for all scythes are apprenticed in their youth.

It is either naivete in thinking that we are somehow of a higher order of being, or it is the product of a depraved heart—for who but the depraved would revel in the taking of life?

For a time years ago, there were groups who would emulate and imitate us. They would fashion robes like those of scythes. They would wear rings that looked similar to ours. For many it was just costume play, but some would actually pretend to be scythes, fooling others, granting false immunity. Everything short of gleaning.

There are laws against impersonating workers in any profession, but no law preventing anyone from impersonating a scythe. Since the Thunderhead has no jurisdiction over the Scythedom, it cannot pass any laws concerning us. It was an unforeseen glitch in the separation of Scythe and State.

However, it wasn’t a glitch for long. In the Year of the Stingray, at the Sixty-Third World Conclave, it was decided that all such imposters shall be gleaned on sight, publicly, and most violently. ?While one might expect such an edict to produce a bloodbath, very few gleanings ever took place. Once word got out, the posers shed their false robes and vanished into the woodwork of the world. To this day the edict remains, but rarely needs to be invoked, because few are foolish enough to impersonate a scythe.

And yet now and again, I hear at conclave the rare tale of a scythe coming face to face with an imposter and having to glean them. Usually the conversation is about the inconvenience of it. How the scythe must then track down the imposter’s family to grant immunity and such.

But I wonder more about the imposter. What was it they hoped to achieve? Was it the lure of the forbidden? Were they enticed by the danger of being caught? Or did they simply wish to leave this life so badly that they chose one of the few direct paths to annihilation?

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



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21


Branded




The party continued for another day. A festival of excess on all levels. Rowan joined in the revelry, but it was more out of obligation than anything. He was the center of attention, the celebrity of the moment. In the pool beautiful people bobbed toward him, at the buffet guests cleared the way so he could always be at the front of the line. It was awkward, yet heady. He couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that enjoyed the surreal nature of celebratory attention. The lettuce elevated to a place of honor.