“I’ll tell you what,” said Rowan. “Let’s not even think about Winter Conclave right now. Let’s be in the here and now, and let Winter Conclave take care of itself.”
Citra nodded. “Agreed.” Then she took a deep breath. “Let’s take a walk. There’s something I have to show you.”
They walked along the outer edge of the rotunda, passing the archways where scythes wheeled and dealed.
Citra pulled out her phone and projected a series of holograms into her palm, cupping it so no one but Rowan could see. “I dug these out of the Thunderhead’s backbrain.”
“How did you do that?”
“Never mind how. What’s important is that I did—and what I found.”
The holograms were of Scythe Faraday on the streets near his home.
“These are from his last day,” Citra said. “I was able to retrace at least some of his steps that day.”
“But why?”
“Just watch.” The hologram showed him being let into someone’s home. “That’s the house of the woman he introduced us to at the market. He spent a few hours there. Then he went to this café.” Citra swiped to another video showing him going into the restaurant. “I think he may have met someone there, but I don’t know who.”
“Okay,” said Rowan. “So he was saying good-bye to people. So far it seems consistent with the things someone would do if it were their last day on Earth.”
Citra swiped again. The next video showed him going up to the stairs to a train station. “This was five minutes before he died,” Citra said. “We know that it happened at that station—but guess what? The camera on that train platform had been vandalized—supposedly by unsavories. It was down for the entire day, so there’s no visual record of what actually happened on that platform!”
A train pulled out of the station, and a moment later a train pulled in, heading in the other direction. That was the one that killed Faraday. Although Rowan couldn’t see it, he grimaced as if he had.
“You think someone killed him, and made it look like he did it himself?” Rowan looked around to make sure they weren’t being observed, and spoke quietly. “If that’s your only evidence, it’s pretty weak.”
“I know. So I kept digging.” She swiped back and replayed the scene of Faraday walking toward the station.
“There were five witnesses. I couldn’t track them down without digging into the Scythedom’s records, and if I did that, they’d know I was looking. But it only makes sense that those witnesses would have gone up these stairs, too, right? There were eighteen people who went up the stairs around the time that Faraday died. Some of them probably got on this first train.” She pointed to the train leaving the station. “But not all of them. Of those eighteen people, I was able to identify about half of them. And three of them were granted immunity that very day.”
It was enough to take the wind out of Rowan and make him feel lightheaded. “They were bribed to say it was a self-gleaning?”
“If you were just an ordinary citizen and witnessed one scythe killing another, and then were offered immunity to keep your mouth shut, what would you do?”
Rowan wanted to believe he’d seek justice, but he thought back to the days before he became an apprentice, when the appearance of a scythe was the most frightening thing he could imagine. “I’d kiss the ring and keep my mouth shut.”
Across the rotunda, the doors of the conclave chamber opened and the scythes began to file in.
“Who do you think did it?” Rowan asked.
“Who had the most to gain by getting Faraday out of the picture?”
Neither of them needed to say it out loud. They both knew the answer. Rowan knew that Goddard was capable of unthinkable things, but would he kill another scythe?”
Rowan shook his head, not wanting to believe it. “That’s not the only explanation!” he told her. “It might not have even been a scythe at all. Maybe it was the family member of someone he gleaned. Someone who wanted revenge. Anyone could have taken his ring, pushed him into the path of the train, and used the ring to give immunity to the witnesses. They’d have to stay quiet then, or they’d be considered accomplices!”
Citra opened her mouth to refute it, but closed it again. It was possible. Even though using Faraday’s ring would have frozen the killer’s finger, it was possible. “I didn’t think of that,” she said.
“Or what about a Tonist? The tone cults hate scythes.”
The rotunda was quickly emptying. They left the alcove and moved toward the chamber doors. “You don’t have enough facts to accuse anyone of anything.” Rowan said. “You should let it sit for now.”
“Let it sit? You can’t be serious.”
“I said for now! You’ll have full access to the Scythedom’s records once you’re ordained, and you’ll be able to prove exactly what happened.”
Citra stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean once I’m ordained. It could just as easily be you. Or is there something I’m missing?”
Rowan pursed his lips, furious at himself for the slip. “Let’s just get inside before they close the doors.”
? ? ?
The rituals of conclave were just as they had been before. The tolling of the dead. The washing of hands, grievances, and discipline. Once again an anonymous accusation was leveled against Scythe Goddard—this time accusing him of handing out immunity too freely.
“Who brings this accusation?” Goddard demanded. “Let the accuser stand and identify his or herself!”
Of course no one took credit, which allowed Goddard to retain the floor. “I will admit that his accusation has merit,” Goddard said. “I am a generous man, and have perhaps been too liberal in my doling of immunity. I make no excuses and am unrepentant. I throw myself on the mercy of the High Blade to levy my punishment.”
High Blade Xenocrates waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, just sit down, Goddard. Your penance will be to shut up for a whole five minutes.”
That brought a round of laughter. Goddard bowed to the High Blade and took his seat. And although a few scythes—including Scythe Curie—tried to object, pointing out that historically, scythes who over-used their ring had their power to grant immunity limited to the families of the gleaned, their complaints fell on deaf ears. Xenocrates overruled all objections in the interest of speeding up the day’s proceedings.
“Amazing,” said Scythe Curie quietly to Citra. “Goddard’s becoming untouchable. He can get away with anything. I wish someone would have had the foresight to glean him as a child. The world would be better off.”
Citra avoided Rowan at lunch, afraid that being seen together more than they already had been might raise suspicion. She stood by Scythe Curie for lunch, and the scythe introduced Citra to several of the greatest living scythes: Scythe Meir, who had once been a delegate to the Global Conclave in Geneva; Scythe Mandela, who was in charge of the bejeweling committee; and Scythe Hideyoshi, the only scythe known to have mastered the skill of gleaning through hypnosis.
Citra tried not to be too starstruck. Meeting them almost gave her hope that the old guard, could triumph against the likes of Goddard. She kept glancing over at Rowan, who, once more, couldn’t seem to get away from the other apprentices, although she didn’t know how hard he tried.
“It’s a bad sign,” said Scythe Hideyoshi, “when our young hopefuls gravitate so openly to the enemy.”
“Rowan’s not the enemy,” Citra blurted, but Scythe Curie put a hand on her shoulder to quiet her.
“He represents the enemy,” Scythe Curie said. “At least he does to those other apprentices.”
Scythe Mandela sighed. “There shouldn’t be enemies in the Scythedom. We should all be on the same side. The side of humanity.”