Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(78)

In the pool a net went up, and dozens gathered for a game of volleyball. “Look around you, Rowan,” Goddard said in utter contentment. “Have you ever experienced such good times as these? The commoners love us not because of the way we glean, but because of the way we live. We need to accept our role as the new royalty.”

Rowan didn’t see himself as royalty, but he was willing to play along, at least today. So he went to the pool and jumped in, declaring himself captain of the team and joining Scythe Goddard’s loyal subjects in their game.

The thing about Scythe Goddard’s parties is that it was very difficult not to have a good time, no matter how hard you tried. And with all the good feelings that abounded, it was easy to forget what a ruthless butcher Goddard was.

But was he a killer of scythes?

Citra hadn’t directly accused Goddard—but it was clear that he was her prime suspect. Citra’s investigation was troubling, yet try as he might, Rowan could not find a single instance since he’d been in Goddard’s presence where Goddard did anything that was illegal by scythe law. His interpretations of the commandments might have been stretches, but nothing he did was an actual violation. Even his gleaning rampages were not forbidden by anything but custom and tradition.

“The old guard despises me because I live and glean with a flair they sorely lack,” Goddard had told Rowan. “They’re a crowd of bitter backstabbers, envious that I’ve found the secret of being the perfect scythe.”

Well, perfection was subjective—Rowan certainly wouldn’t call the man a perfect scythe—but there was nothing in Goddard’s repertoire of malfeasance that would suggest he would murder Faraday.

? ? ?

On the third day of this seemingly unending bash, there were two unexpected party guests—or at least unexpected to Rowan. The first was High Blade Xenocrates himself.

“What is he doing here?” Rowan asked Scythe Chomsky when he saw the High Blade come out to the pool.

“Don’t ask me—I didn’t invite him.”

It seemed strange that the High Blade would show up at the party of a highly controversial scythe. He didn’t appear comfortable being here at all. He seemed self-conscious and tried to be inconspicuous, but a man of such mighty girth, festooned in gold, was hard not to see. He stood out like a hot air balloon in an otherwise empty field.

It was, however, the second guest that shocked Rowan more. He was stripping down to his bathing suit just seconds after getting to the pool deck. It was none other than Rowan’s friend, Tyger Salazar, who Rowan hadn’t seen since the day he showed him Scythe Faraday’s weapons den.

Rowan made a beeline to him, pulling him aside behind a topiary hedge.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hey, Rowan!” Tyger said, with his signature slanted grin, “good to see you, too! Man, you’re looking buff! What did they inject you with?”

“Nothing, it’s all real—and you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here? Do you know how much trouble you could be in if anyone found out you snuck in? This isn’t like crashing a school dance!”

“Take it easy! I’m not crashing anything. I’ve signed up with Guests Unlimited. I’m a licensed partier now!”

Tyger had often boasted that to be a professional party guest was his life’s ambition, but Rowan had never taken him seriously.

“Tyger, this is a really bad idea—worse than any of your other bad ideas.” Then he whispered, “Professional partiers sometimes have to . . . do things you might not be up for. I know; I’ve seen it.”

“Dude, you know me; I go where the day takes me.”

“And your parents are okay with this?”

Tyger looked down, his upbeat demeanor suddenly subdued. “My parents surrendered me.”

“What? Are you kidding?

Tyger shrugged. “One splat too many. They gave up. Now I’m a ward of the Thunderhead.”

“I’m sorry, Tyger.”

“Hey, don’t be. Believe it or not, the Thunderhead’s a better father than my father was. I get good advice now, and get asked how my day was by someone who actually seems to care.”

Just like everything else about the Thunderhead, its parenting skills were indisputable. But being surrendered by his parents had to hurt.

“Somehow,” noted Rowan, “I don’t think the Thunderhead advised you to be a professional party boy.”

“No—but it can’t stop me. It’s my choice to make. And anyway, it pays pretty good.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in close and whispered, “But you know what pays even better?”

Rowan was almost afraid to ask. “What?”

“The word on the street is that you’ve been training with live subjects. That kind of work pays top dollar! Do you think you could put in a word for me? I mean, I go deadish all the time. Might as well get paid for it!”

Rowan stared at him in disbelief. “Are you nuts? Do you even know what you’re saying? My god, what are you on?”

“Just my own nanites, man. Just my own nanites.”

? ? ?

Scythe Volta felt lucky to be in Goddard’s inner circle. Most of the time. The youngest of Goddard’s three junior scythes, he saw himself as the balancing force. Chomsky was the brainless brawn, Rand was the animus—the wild force of nature among them. Volta was the sensible one who saw more than he let anyone know. He was the first to see Xenocrates arrive at the party, and watched as he unsuccessfully tried to avoid encounters. He ended up shaking hands with a number of the other guest scythes—some from regions as far flung as PanAsia and EuroScandia. It was all with such reluctance on Xenocrates’ part that Volta knew the man wasn’t here entirely by choice.