The early morning conversations had been just small talk, but now, as the day progressed, Rowan could see a number of scythes congregating during break into small klatches, doing side deals, building alliances, pushing secret agendas.
He overheard one group that was planning to propose a ban on remote detonators as a method of gleaning—not for any ethical reason, but because the gun lobby had made a sizeable contribution to a particular scythe. Another group was trying to groom one of the younger scythes for a position on the selection committee, so that he might sway gleaning choices when they needed those choices swayed.
Power politics might have been a thing of the past elsewhere, but it was alive and seething in the Scythedom.
Their mentor did not join any of the plotters. Faraday remained solitary and above petty politics, as did perhaps half of the scythes.
“We know the schemes of the schemers,” he told Rowan and Citra as he negotiated a jelly donut. “They only get their way when the rest of us want them to.”
Rowan made a point to observe Scythe Goddard. Many scythes approached him to talk. Others grumbled about him under their breath. His entourage of junior scythes were a multicultural bunch, in the old-school meaning of the word. While no one had pristine ethno-genetics anymore, his inner circle showed traits that leaned toward one ethnos or another. The girl in green seemed mildly PanAsian, the man in yellow had Afric leanings, the one in fiery orange was as Caucasoid as could be, and he himself leaned slightly toward the Spanic. He was clearly a scythe who wanted high visibility—even his grand gesture of ethnic balance was a visible one.
Although Goddard never turned to look, Rowan had the distinct feeling that he knew Rowan was watching him.
? ? ?
For the rest of the morning, proposals were made and hotly debated in the assembly room. As Scythe Faraday had said, the schemers only prevailed when the more high-minded body of the Scythedom allowed. The ban on remote detonators was adopted—not because of bribes from the gun lobby, but because blowing people up was determined to be crude, cruel, and beneath the Scythedom. And the young scythe put forth for membership on the selection committee was voted down, because no one on that committee should be in anyone’s pocket.
“I should like to be on a scythe committee one day,” Rowan said.
Citra looked at him oddly. “Why are you talking like Faraday?”
Rowan shrugged. “When in Rome . . .”
“We’re not in Rome,” she reminded him. “If we were, we’d have a much cooler place for conclave.”
Local restaurants vied for the chance to cater the conclave, so lunch was a buffet out in the rotunda even more sumptuous than the one at breakfast—and Faraday packed his plate, which was out of character for him.
“Don’t think ill of him,” Scythe Curie told Rowan and Citra, her voice mellifluous, yet sharp at the same time. “For those of us who take our vow of austerity seriously, conclave is the only time we allow ourselves the luxury of fine food and drink. It reminds us that we’re human.”
Citra, who had a one-track mind, took this as her opportunity to get information.
“When will the apprentices be tested?” she asked.
Scythe Curie smirked and brushed back her silky silver hair. “The ones who are hoping to receive their ring today were tested last night. As for all the others, you’ll be tested soon enough,” she said. Citra’s frustration made Rowan snicker, which earned him a glare from Citra.
“Just shut up and stuff your face,” she said. Rowan was happy to oblige.
? ? ?
As focused as Citra was on the upcoming test, she began to wonder what in conclave she would miss when the apprentices were taken for testing. Like Rowan, she found conclave to be an education like none other. There were few people beyond scythes and their apprentices who ever witnessed this. And those others who did caught only a glimpse—such as the string of salespeople after lunch, who were each given ten minutes to expound the virtues of some weapon or poison they were trying to sell to the Scythedom, and more importantly the Weaponsmaster, who had the final decision over what the Scythedom purchased. They sounded like those awful people on info-holograms. “It dices, it slices! But wait! There’s more!”
One salesperson was selling a digital poison that would turn the healing nanites in a person’s bloodstream into hungry little bastards that would devour the victim from the inside out in less than a minute. He actually used the word “victim,” which immediately soured the scythes. He was flatly dismissed by the Weaponsmaster.
The most successful salesperson was offering a product called Touch of Quietude, which sounded more like a feminine hygiene product than a death delivery system. The woman selling it displayed a small pill—but not to give to the subject. The pill was for the scythe. “Take with water and within seconds your fingers will secrete a transdermal poison. Anyone you touch for the next hour will be instantly and painlessly gleaned.”
The Weaponsmaster was so impressed, he came up to the stage to take a dose, then, in the ultimate demonstration, proceeded to glean the saleswoman. She sold fifty vials of the stuff to the Scythedom posthumously.
The rest of the afternoon consisted of more discussion, arguments, and votes about policy. Scythe Faraday only found fit to voice his opinion once—when it came to forming an immunity committee.
“It seems clear to me that there should be oversight for the granting of immunity, just as the selection committee provides oversight for gleaning.”
Rowan and Citra were pleased to see that his opinion carried a great deal of weight. Several scythes who had initially voted against the forming of an immunity committee switched their vote. However, before a final tally was taken, High Blade Xenocrates announced that time had run out for legislative issues.
“The subject will be at the top of our agenda for the next conclave,” he announced.
A number of scythes applauded, but several rose up and shouted their grievous discontent at the issue being tabled. Scythe Faraday did not voice his own displeasure. He took a long breath in and out. “Interesting . . .” is all he said.
This might have all pinged loudly on Rowan and Citra’s radar, had the High Blade not immediately announced that the next order of business was the apprentices.
Citra found herself wanting to grip Rowan’s hand in anticipation and squeeze it until it was bloodless, but she restrained herself.
Rowan, on the other hand, followed his mentor’s lead. He took a deep breath in, then out, and tried to let his anxiety wash from him. He had studied all he could study, learned all he could learn. He would do the best he could do. If he failed today there would be more than enough chances to redeem himself.
“Good luck,” Rowan said to Citra.
“You too,” she returned. “Let’s make Scythe Faraday proud!”
Rowan smiled, and thought that Faraday might smile at Citra as well, but he didn’t. He just kept his gaze on Xenocrates.
First, the candidates for Scythedom were called up. There were four whose apprenticeship was now complete. Having had their final test the evening before, there was nothing left but to ordain them. Or not, as the case may be. Word was there was a fifth candidate who had failed the final test last night. He or she wasn’t even invited to conclave.
Three rings were brought out, resting on red velvet pillows. The four looked to one another, now, aware that even though they had passed their final test, one of them would not be ordained and would be sent home in shame.