Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(32)

—The Thunderhead



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13


Not a Pretty Picture


Scythe Pierre-Auguste Renoir was no artist, although he had quite the collection of masterpieces painted by his Patron Historic. What could he say? He liked pretty pictures.

Of course, a MidMerican scythe naming himself after a French artist infuriated scythes from the FrancoIberian region. They felt that all mortal-age French artists belonged to them. Well, just because Montreal was now part of MidMerica didn’t mean its French heritage was lost. Surely someone in Scythe Renoir’s ancestry had been from France.

No matter—the scythedoms across the Atlantic could bluster all they wanted, it did not affect him. What affected him were the Permafrost ethnics in the northern reaches of the Mericas where he lived. While the rest of the world had blended on the genetic level to a large degree, the Permafrosts were far too protective of their culture to become one with the rest of humankind. Not a crime, of course—people were free to do as they chose—but to Scythe Renoir it was a nuisance, and a blemish upon the order of things.

And Renoir knew order.

His spices were arranged alphabetically; his teacups were lined up in his cupboard with mathematical precision; he had his hair trimmed to a measured length every Friday morning. The Permafrost population flew in the face of all of that. They looked far too racially distinct, and it was something he could not abide.

Therefore, he gleaned as many of them as he could.

Of course, showing an ethnic bias would leave him in deep water with the scythedom if it found out. Thank goodness Permafrost was not considered a distinct race. Their genetic ratio simply showed a high percentage of ?“other.” ?“Other” was such a broad category, it effectively masked what he was doing. Perhaps not from the Thunderhead, but from the scythedom, which was all that mattered. And as long as he gave no one in the scythedom a reason to look deeper into his gleanings, no one would know! In this way, he hoped, in time, to thin the population of ethnic Permafrosts, until their presence no longer offended him.

On this particular night, he was on his way to a double gleaning. A Permafrost woman and her young son. He was in high spirits that evening—but just as he left his home, he unexpectedly encountered a figure dressed in black.

The woman and her son were not gleaned that night . . . however, Scythe Renoir was not so lucky. He was found in a burning publicar that had sped through his neighborhood like a fireball until its tires melted and it skidded to a stop. By the time firefighters reached him, there was nothing they could do. It was not a pretty picture.

? ? ?

Rowan awoke to a knife at his throat. The room was dark. He couldn’t see who held the knife, but he knew the feel of the blade. It was a ringless karambit—its curved blade perfect for its current application. He had always suspected his tenure as Scythe Lucifer would not last long. He was prepared for this. He was prepared from the day he began.

“Answer me truthfully, or I will slit your throat ear to ear,” his assailant said. Rowan recognized the voice right away. It was not a voice he was expecting.

“Ask your question first,” Rowan said. “Then I’ll tell you whether I’d rather answer it or have my throat slit.”

“Did you end Scythe Renoir?”

Rowan did not hesitate. “Yes, Scythe Faraday. ?Yes, I did.”

The blade was removed from his neck. He heard a twanging sound across the room as the hurled blade embedded in the wall.

“Damn you, Rowan!”

Rowan reached to turn on the light. Scythe Faraday now sat in the single chair in Rowan’s Spartan room. It’s a room Faraday should approve of, Rowan thought. No creature comforts, but for a comfortable bed to guard against the troubled sleep of a scythe.

“How did you find me?” Rowan asked. After his encounter with Tyger, Rowan had left Pittsburgh for Montreal, because he felt that if ?Tyger could find him, anyone could. And yet even with the move, he was found. Luckily, it was Faraday and not another scythe who might not hesitate to slit his throat.

“You forget that I’m skilled in digging around the backbrain. I can find anything or anyone I set my mind to.”

Faraday regarded him with eyes filled with smoldering anger and bitter disappointment. Rowan felt compelled to look away, but he didn’t. He refused to feel any shame for the things he’d done.

“When you left, Rowan, did you not promise me that you would lie low, and stay away from scythe affairs?”

“I did promise that,” Rowan told him quite honestly.

“So you lied to me? You planned this ‘Scythe Lucifer’ business all along?”

Rowan got up and pulled the blade from the wall. A ringless karambit, just as he thought. “I didn’t plan anything, I just changed my mind.” He handed the blade back to Faraday.

“Why?”

“I felt I had to. I felt it was necessary.”

Faraday looked to Rowan’s black robe, which hung on a hook beside the bed. “And now you dress in a forbidden robe. Is there no taboo you will not break?”

It was true. Scythes were not allowed to wear black, which is exactly why he chose it. Black death for purveyors of darkness.

“We are supposed to be the enlightened!” Faraday said. “This is not how we fight!”

“You of all people have no right to tell me how to fight. ?You played dead and ran away!”