Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(94)

Then he turned to the die-hard onlookers who had waited until the end of conclave to get a glimpse of the scythes. From his robe, Goddard pulled out a dagger and advanced on a man who was oblivious to what was coming. A single upward stroke and the man was gleaned, his blood staining the stairs. Those around him began to scurry like rats, but he caught the closest one. A woman. He didn’t care who she was, or what, if anything, she contributed to the world. She meant only one thing to Goddard. Her winter coat was thick, but the blade penetrated it without much resistance. Her scream was cut short as she fell to the ground.

“Goddard!” shouted one of the other scythes leaving conclave. Scythe Bohr—an irritatingly neutral man who never took a side on anything. “Have you no shame? Show some decorum!”

Goddard turned on him with a vengeance, and Bohr backed away as if Goddard might attack him. “Haven’t you heard?” Goddard yelled. “I’m not Goddard at all. I’m only seven percent of myself!” And he took out another bystander running down the steps.

It was all Ayn could do to pull him away, and get him to their limousine.

“Are you done?” she said, as they rode away, not hiding her annoyance with him. “Or should we stop at a bar, have a drink, and glean all the customers?”

He pointed at her, just as he had pointed at Xenocrates. Goddard’s dread finger of warning. Tyger’s finger, she thought, but kicked the thought out of her mind as quickly as she could.

“Your attitude is not appreciated!” he growled.

“You’re here because of me!” she reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”

He took a moment to calm himself down. “Have the scythedom offices find the families of the people I just gleaned. If they want immunity they’ll have to come to me. I’m done with Fulcrum City until the day I return from the inquest as High Blade.”

? ? ?

Rowan was woken at the earliest light of dawn by Goddard’s mercenary guards.

“Get yourself ready for a match,” they told him, and five minutes later they took him out to the veranda, where Rand and Goddard were waiting. While Rand was in her robe, Goddard was barefoot and shirtless, wearing loose shorts that were the same shade of blue as his robe, but mercifully, were not studded with diamonds. He had not seen Goddard since that first day he came into his room, barely able to move in that wheeled chair contraption. That was just over a week ago, and now he commanded Tyger’s body as if it were Goddard’s own. Rowan thought he might have been sick if there was anything in his stomach, but he did not let his emotions show this time. If Goddard fed on his misery, then Rowan would not provide him any sustenance.

Rowan knew what day this was—fireworks outside a week ago had marked the New Year. ?Today was the eighth of January. Conclave was yesterday. Which meant his immunity had expired.

“Back from conclave already?” Rowan said, feigning to be flip. “I figured you’d spend a few days playing up the whole resurrection thing.”

Goddard ignored him. “I’ve been looking forward to sparring with you,” Goddard said, and the two began to slowly circle each other.

“Sure,” said Rowan. “It will be like old times, back at the mansion. I miss the good old days, don’t you?”

Goddard’s lip twitched just a bit, but he smiled.

“Did things go the way you wanted?” Rowan taunted. “Did the scythedom welcome you back with open arms?”

“Shut up!” said Rand. “You’re here to fight, not to talk.”

“Oooh,” said Rowan. “Sounds to me like things didn’t go according to plan! What happened? Did Xenocrates throw you out? Did they refuse to accept you back?”

“On the contrary, they embraced us with warm arms,” said Goddard. “Especially after I told them how my pathetic apprentice betrayed us and tried to kill us. How poor Chomsky and Volta were the first victims of so-called Scythe Lucifer. I promised them I’d deliver you right into their angry little hands. But not until I’m ready, of course.”

Rowan knew that wasn’t the whole story. He knew when Tyger was lying. He could hear it in his voice, and that hadn’t changed now that the words were Goddard’s. But whatever really happened, he wouldn’t get it out of Goddard.

“Ayn shall referee the match,” Goddard said. “And I intend to be merciless.”

Then Goddard launched himself forward. Rowan did nothing to defend himself. Nothing to dodge the attack. Goddard took him down. Pinned him. Ayn called the match for Goddard. It was far too easy—and Goddard knew it.

“You think you can get away with not fighting back?”

“If I wish to throw a Bokator match, that’s my prerogative,” Rowan said.

Goddard snarled at him. “You have no prerogatives here.” He attacked again, and once more, Rowan fought his own self-defense instincts, and let his body go limp. Goddard took him down like a rag doll, and he raged in fury.

“Fight back, damn it!”

“No,” Rowan said calmly. He glanced to Rand, who actually had a slight grin, although she suppressed it the moment he looked over.

“I will glean everyone who is dear to you if you don’t spar with me!” Goddard said.

Rowan shrugged. “You can’t. Scythe Brahms already gleaned my father, and the rest of my family has immunity for another eleven months. And you can’t take out Citra—she’s already proven herself too smart for that.”