Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(24)

“I was called to the Authority Interface last week. You can check my record—there was a note about it.”

The dean picked up a tablet, tapped a few times, then looked at the others and nodded. “That’s true,” she told them.

“For what reason would the AI call you in?” the chancellor asked.

Now it was time to seamlessly begin to paint a convincing fiction. “A friend of my father’s is a Nimbus agent. Since my parents have been away for a while, he wanted to check in with me, and give me advice. Y’know—which classes I should take next semester, which professors I should get in with. He wanted to give me a leg up.”

“So he offered to pull strings,” said the Doberman.

“No, he just wanted me to have the benefit of his advice—and to know that he had my back. I’ve been feeling kind of alone without my parents, and he knew that. He was just being kind.”

“That still doesn’t explain—”

“I’m getting to that. Anyway, after I left his office, I passed a bunch of agents coming out of a briefing. I didn’t hear everything, but I heard them talking about rumors of some sort of plot against Scythe Curie. It caught my attention, because she’s one of the most famous scythes there is. I heard them saying what a shame it was that they had to ignore it, and couldn’t even warn her, because it was a violation. So I thought—”

“So you thought you could be a hero,” said the chancellor.

“Yes, sir.”

The three looked to one another. The dean wrote something down for the other two to see. The chancellor nodded, and the doberman relented with a disgusted shift in his seat and a look the other way.

“Our laws exist for a reason, Greyson,” said the dean. He knew he had succeeded, because they were no longer calling him “Mr. Tolliver.” They might not have believed him completely, but they believed him enough to decide this wasn’t worth any more of their time. “The life of two scythes,” continued the dean, “is not worth even the slightest compromise of the separation. The Thunderhead cannot kill, and the scythedom cannot rule. The only way to ensure that is to have zero contact—and to impose severe penalties for any violation.”

“For your sake, we’ll make this quick,” said the chancellor. “You are hereby permanently and irrevocably expelled from this academy, and are forever barred from applying to this or any other Nimbus Academy.”

Greyson knew this was coming, but hearing it spoken aloud hit him harder than he thought it would. He couldn’t stop his eyes from filling with tears. If anything, it would help to sell the lie he had told them.

He hadn’t really cared for Agent Traxler, but he knew he needed to protect him. The law required culpability—a settling of the score—and not even the Thunderhead could escape its own law. That was part of its integrity; it lived by the laws it levied. The truth was, Greyson acted of his own free will. The Thunderhead knew him. It had counted on him doing so, in spite of the consequences. Now he would be punished and the law would be upheld. But he didn’t have to like it. And as much as he loved the Thunderhead, he hated it right now.

“Now that you are no longer a student here,” said the dean, “the separation laws no longer apply—which means the scythedom will want to question you. We know nothing of their means of interrogation, so you should be prepared.”

Greyson squeezed down a dry swallow. This was something else he hadn’t considered. “I understand.”

The Doberman waved a hand dismissively. “Go back to your dorm and pack your things. An officer from my staff will be by at five sharp to escort you off the premises.”

Ah, so this was the head of security. He looked adequately intimidating for the job. Greyson burned him a glare, because at this point it didn’t matter what he did. He stood to leave, but before he did, he had to ask them one question.

“Did you really have to mark me as an unsavory?”

“That,” said the chancellor, “had nothing to do with us. The Thunderhead gave you that punishment.”

? ? ?

The scythedom, which did everything but gleaning at a snail’s pace, took a full day to decide how to deal with the explosives. In the end, the scythedom decided it was safest to simply send a robot walking into the wire to trip the explosives, and then, when the dust and shredded trees settled, send in a construction team to rebuild the road.

The explosion rattled the windows of Fallingwater to the point that Citra thought some might shatter. Not five minutes later, Scythe Curie was packing a bag, and instructed Citra to do the same.

“We’re going into hiding?”

“I don’t hide,” Scythe Curie told her. “We’re going mobile. If we stay here we’re sitting ducks for the next attack, but if we become nomadic until this blows over we’ll be moving targets, much harder to find and much harder to take down.”

It was still unclear, however, who the target had been, and why. Scythe Curie had her thoughts on the matter, though. She shared them as Citra helped her braid her long silver hair.

“My ego says it must be me they’re after,” she said. “I’m the most respected of the old-guard scythes . . . but it’s also possible the target was you.”

Citra scoffed at the idea. “Why would anyone be after me?” She caught Scythe Curie’s smile in the mirror.