He took a breath and closed his book. When Faraday first began teaching them, Rowan found the use of actual old-school books very off-putting, but over time, he’d learned there was something very satisfying to the turning of pages, and—as Citra had already discovered—the emotional catharsis of slamming a book shut.
“Of course I’m worried, but here’s the way I look at it. We know they won’t disqualify us, and we already know we can’t be gleaned, and we’ll have two more chances to make up for any screw-ups before one of us is chosen. Whatever the consequence of failing the first round of tests, if either of us fail, we’ll deal with it.”
Citra slumped in her chair. “I don’t fail,” she said, but didn’t sound too convinced of it. There was this pouty look on her face that made Rowan want to smile, but he didn’t because he knew that would infuriate her. He actually liked how she would get infuriated—but they had too much work to do to indulge in emotional distraction.
Rowan put away his toxicology book and pulled out his volume on weapons identification. They were required to be able to identify thirty different weapons, how to wield them, and their detailed history. Rowan was more worried about that than the poisons. He spared a glance at Citra, who noticed the glance, so he tried not to look at her again.
Then out of nowhere she said, “I would miss you.”
He looked up, and she looked away. “How do you mean?”
“I mean that if disqualification was part of the rules, I’d miss having you around.”
He considered reaching out to take her hand, which rested gently on the table. But the table was big, and her hand was too far away for it to be anything other than insanely awkward. Then again, even if they sat closer, it would be an insane thing to do.
“But it’s not part of the rules,” he said. “Which means that no matter what, you’re stuck with me for eight more months.”
She grinned. “Yeah. I’m sure I’ll really be sick of you by then.”
It was the first time it occurred to Rowan that she might not hate him as much as he thought she did.
* * *
The quota system has worked for over two hundred years, and although it fluctuates region to region, it makes it crystal clear what each scythe’s responsibility to the world is. Of course it’s all based on averages—we can go days or even weeks without gleaning—but we must meet our quota before the next conclave. There are those eager ones who glean early, and find themselves with little to do as conclave draws near. There are those who procrastinate and have to hurry toward the end. Both those approaches lead to sloppiness and unintentional bias.
I often wonder if the quota will ever change, and if so, how much. Population growth is still off the charts, but it’s balanced by the Thunderhead’s ability to provide for an ever-increasing population. Renewable resources, subsurface dwellings, artificial islands, and all without there ever being any less green or a sense of overcrowding. We have mastered this world, and yet protected it in a way that our forefathers could scarcely have dreamed.
But all things are limited. While the Thunderhead does not interfere with the Scythedom, it does suggest the number of scythes there should be in the world. Currently there are approximately five million people gleaned per year worldwide—a tiny fraction of the death rate in the Age of Mortality, and nowhere near enough to balance population growth. I shudder to think how many more scythes it would take, and how many gleanings would be required, if we ever need to curb population growth altogether.
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie
* * *
13
Vernal Conclave
Fulcrum City was a post-mortal metropolis toward the very center of MidMerica. There, by the river, set low between the skysoaring spires of graceful city living, was a venerable structure of stone, impressive if not in height then in solidity. Marble columns and arches supported a great copper dome. It was an unyielding homage to ancient Greece and Imperial Rome, the birthing grounds of civilization. It was still called the Capitol Building, for it was once a state capital, back when there were still states—in those days before government became obsolete. Now it had the honor of holding the administrative offices of the MidMerican Scythedom, as well as hosting its conclave three times a year.
? ? ?
It was pouring rain the day of the Vernal Conclave.
Citra rarely minded the rain, but a day of gloom coupled with a day of pure tension did not sit well with her. But then, a bright sunny day would feel mocking. Citra realized there was no good day to be presented to an intimidating elegy of scythes.
Fulcrum City was only an hour away by hypertrain, but of course, Scythe Faraday saw hypertrains as an unnecessary extravagance. “Besides, I want scenery rather than a windowless subterranean tunnel. I’m a human being, not a mole.”
A standard train took six hours, and Citra did enjoy the scenery along the way, although she spent most of the trip studying.
Fulcrum City was on the Mississippi River. She recalled that there was once a giant silver arch on the riverbank, but it was gone now. Destroyed back in the Age of Mortality by something called “terrorism.” She’d have learned more about the city if she weren’t so focused on her poisons and weapons.
They had arrived the evening before conclave, and stayed in a downtown hotel. Morning came much too quickly.
As Citra, Rowan, and Scythe Faraday walked from their hotel at the awful hour of six thirty a.m., people in the streets ran to them and handed them umbrellas, choosing to get wet rather than see a scythe and his apprentices go without one.
“Do they know you’ve taken two apprentices instead of just one?” Citra asked.
“Of course they know,” said Rowan. “Why wouldn’t they?”
But Scythe Faraday’s silence on the matter was a clear red flag to Citra.
“You did clear it with the High Blade, didn’t you, Scythe Faraday?”
“I have found that with the Scythedom, it is better to ask forgiveness than permission,” he told them.
Citra gave Rowan an I-told-you-so look, and he cocked his umbrella slightly so he didn’t have to see it.
“It will not be a problem,” Faraday said, but he didn’t sound very convincing.
Citra looked to Rowan again, who was no longer eclipsed by his umbrella. “Am I the only one who’s worried about that?”
Rowan shrugged. “We have immunity until Winter Conclave, and it can’t be revoked—everyone knows that. What’s the worst they could do?”
? ? ?
Some scythes arrived at the Capitol Building on foot, as they had; others in publicars, some in private cars, and several in limousines. There were ropes to hold back spectators on either side of the wide marble staircase leading up to the building, as well as peace officers and members of the BladeGuard—the Scythedom’s elite security force. The arriving scythes were protected from their adoring public, even if the public was not protected from them.
“I despise ‘running the gauntlet.’” Scythe Faraday said, referring to climbing the steps to conclave. “It’s even worse when it’s not raining. The crowd on either side is a dozen people deep.”
Now it was only half that. It never occurred to Citra that people would come out to see scythes arriving at conclave, but then, all celebrity events drew onlookers, so why not a gathering of scythes?
Some of the arriving scythes gave obligatory waves, others played to the crowd, kissing babies and randomly granting immunity. Citra and Rowan followed Faraday’s lead, which was to ignore the crowd completely.