There were dozens of other scythes in the entry vestibule. They removed their raincoats to reveal robes of all colors, all textures. It was a rainbow that summoned forth anything but thoughts of death. This, Citra realized, was intentional. Scythes wished to be seen as the many facets of light, not of darkness.
Through a grand arch lay a grander chamber beneath the central dome—a rotunda where hundreds of scythes greeted one another, engaging in casual conversation around an elaborate breakfast spread in the center. Citra wondered what it was that scythes talked about. The tools of gleaning? The weather? The chafing of their robes? It was intimidating enough to be in the presence of a single scythe. To be surrounded by hundreds was enough to make one crumble.
Scythe Faraday leaned over and spoke to them in a hushed voice. “See there?” He pointed to a bald, heavily bearded man. “Scythe Archimedes—one of the world’s oldest living scythes. He’ll tell you he was there in the Year of the Condor, when the Scythedom was first formed, but it’s a lie. He’s not that old! And over there . . .” He pointed to a woman with long silver hair in a pale lavender robe. “That’s Scythe Curie.”
Citra gasped. “The Grande Dame of Death?”
“So they say.”
“Is it true she gleaned the last president, before the Thunderhead was given control?” Citra asked.
“And his cabinet, yes.” He looked at her—perhaps a bit wistfully, Citra thought. “Her actions were quite controversial back in the day.”
The woman caught them glancing her way and turned to them. Citra chilled when her piercing gray eyes zeroed in on her. Then the woman smiled at the three of them, nodded, and returned to her conversation.
There was a group of four or five scythes closer to the assembly chamber entrance, the doors of which were still closed. They wore bright robes studded with gems. The center of their attention was a scythe in royal blue whose robe contained what appeared to be diamonds. He said something and the others laughed a little too heartily for it to be anything but sycophantic.
“Who’s that?” Citra asked.
Scythe Faraday’s expression took a turn toward sour.
“That,” he said, not even trying to hide his distaste, “is Scythe Goddard, and his company is best avoided.”
“Goddard . . . isn’t he the master of mass gleanings?” Rowan asked.
Faraday looked at him a bit concerned. “Where did you hear that?”
Rowan shrugged. “I have a friend who’s obsessed with that kind of stuff, and he hears things.”
Citra gasped, realizing she had heard of Goddard, not by name, just by deed. Or, more accurately, rumor because there was never any official report. But like Rowan said, you hear things. “Is he the one who gleaned an entire airplane?”
“Why?” asked Faraday, giving her a cold, accusing eye. “Does that impress you?”
Citra shook her head. “No, the opposite.” But she couldn’t help but be a bit dazzled by the way the man’s robe caught the light. Everyone was—which must have been his intent.
And yet his was not the most ostentatious robe on display. Moving through the crowd was a scythe in a lavishly gilded robe. The man was so large, his robe seemed a bit like a golden tent.
“Who’s the fat guy?” Citra asked.
“He looks important,” said Rowan.
“Indeed,” said Scythe Faraday. “‘The fat guy,’ as you call him, is the High Blade. The most powerful man in the MidMerican Scythedom. He presides over conclave.”
The High Blade worked the crowd like a great gaseous planet bending space around it. He could have tweaked his nanites to eliminate at least some of his girth, but clearly he had chosen not to. The choice was a bold statement and his size made him an imposing figure. When he saw Faraday, he excused himself from his current conversation and made his way toward them.
“Honorable Scythe Faraday, always a pleasure to see you.” He used both his hands to grip Faraday’s in what was meant to be a heartfelt greeting, but felt forced and artificial.
“Citra, Rowan, I’d like you to meet High Blade Xenocrates,” Faraday said, then turned back to the large man. “These are my new apprentices.”
He took a moment to appraise them. “A double apprenticeship,” he said jovially. “I believe that’s a first. Most scythes have trouble with just one.”
“The better of the two shall receive my blessing for the ring.”
“And the other,” said the High Blade, “will be sorely disappointed, I’m sure.” ?Then he moved on to greet other scythes that were just now coming in from the rain.
“See?” Rowan said. “And you were worried.”
But to Citra, nothing about the man seemed sincere.
? ? ?
Rowan was nervous, he just didn’t want to admit it. He knew admitting it would make Citra more worried, which would make him more worried. So he bit back his fears and misgivings, and kept his eyes and ears open, taking in everything that happened around him. There were other apprentices there. He overheard two talking about how this was the “big day.” A boy and a girl—both older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, would be getting their rings today and become junior scythes. The girl lamented about how, for the first four years, they would have to get approval from the selection committee for their gleanings.
“Every single one,” she complained. “Like we’re babies.”
“At least the apprenticeship isn’t four years long,” Rowan interjected, as a way to get into the conversation. The two looked at him with mild disgust.
“I mean, it takes four years to get a college degree, right?” Rowan knew he was just digging himself deeper, but he had already committed. “At least it doesn’t take that long to get a license to glean.”
“Who the hell are you?” the girl asked.
“Ignore him, he’s just a spat.”
“A what?” Rowan had been called many things, but never that.
They both smirked at him. “Don’t you know anything?” said the girl. “‘Spat,’ as in ‘spatula.’ It’s what they call new apprentices, because you’re not good for anything but flipping your scythe’s burgers.”
Rowan laughed at that, which just irritated them.
Then Citra came up next to them. “So if we’re spatulas, what does that make you? Safety scissors? Or are you just a couple of tools?”
The boy looked like he might slug Citra. “Who’s your mentor scythe?” he asked her. “He should be told of this disrespect.”
“I am,” said Faraday, putting his hand on Citra’s shoulder. “And you don’t warrant anyone’s respect until after you receive your ring.”
The boy seemed to shrink by about three inches. “Honorable Scythe Faraday! I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” The girl took a step away as if to distance herself from him.
“Best of luck today,” he told them with a magnanimous gesture that they didn’t deserve.
“Thank you,” said the girl, “but if I may say, luck plays no part. We’ve both trained long and have been taught well by our scythes.”
“Very true,” Faraday said. They nodded respectful good-byes that bordered on bows, and left.
After they were gone, Faraday turned to Rowan and Citra. “The girl will get her ring today,” he said. “The boy will be denied.”
“How do you know?” asked Rowan.
“I have friends on the bejeweling committee. The boy is smart, but too quick to anger. It’s a fatal flaw that cannot be tolerated.”
As annoying as Rowan found the kid, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. “What happens to the apprentices that get denied?”
“They are returned to their families to take up life where they left off.”
“But life can never be the same after a year of training to be a scythe,” Rowan pointed out.”
“True,” said Faraday, “but only good can come from a keen understanding of what it takes to be a scythe.”