It was so outrageous a thing to say, it even made Rowan laugh.
“He’s so full of crap,” Scythe Rand whispered to Rowan, “but you gotta love it.”
As the rooms, and the terraces, and the pool deck began to fill with partiers, Rowan began to rise from the funk he had been left in after his awful bout with Citra.
“I checked for you,” Scythe Volta told him. “Citra’s conscious and has one more day in the revival center. She’ll go back home fully recovered with Scythe Curie; no harm, no foul. Well, plenty of foul, but that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Rowan didn’t answer him. He wondered if anyone else was insightful enough to know why he did what he did. He hoped not.
Then Volta got serious in the midst of the revelry around them. “Don’t lose the scythehood to her, Rowan,” he said. “At least not on purpose. If she beats you fair and square that’s one thing, but submitting yourself to her blade because of raging hormones is just plain stupid.”
Maybe Volta was right. Perhaps he should do his best in their final trial, and if his best outshined Citra’s, he would accept the scythe ring. And then maybe he would glean himself as his first and only act. Then he’d never be faced with having to glean Citra. It comforted Rowan that he had a way out, even though it was a worst-case scenario.
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The rich and famous arrived by helicopter, by limousine, and in one bizarre but memorable entrance, by jet pack. Goddard made a point to introduce Rowan to them all, as if Rowan were a prize worth showing off. “Watch this boy,” Goddard told his high-profile guests. “He’s going places.”
Rowan had never felt so valued and validated. It was hard to hate a man who treated him like the meat rather than the lettuce.
“This is how life was meant to be lived,” Goddard told Rowan as they luxuriated in his open-face cabana, looking out over the festivities. “Experiencing all there is to experience, and enjoying the company of others.”
“Even when some of those others are paid to be here?”
Goddard looked out at the crowded pool deck that would have been far less dense, and far less beautiful, had it not been for the presence of professional party guests.
“There are always extras in every production,” he told Rowan. “They fill in the gaps and make for pleasant scenery. We wouldn’t want everyone to be a celebrity, would we? They’d do nothing but fight!”
In the pool a net went up, and dozens gathered for a game of volleyball. “Look around you, Rowan,” Goddard said in utter contentment. “Have you ever experienced such good times as these? The commoners love us not because of the way we glean, but because of the way we live. We need to accept our role as the new royalty.”
Rowan didn’t see himself as royalty, but he was willing to play along, at least today. So he went to the pool and jumped in, declaring himself captain of the team and joining Scythe Goddard’s loyal subjects in their game.
The thing about Scythe Goddard’s parties is that it was very difficult not to have a good time, no matter how hard you tried. And with all the good feelings that abounded, it was easy to forget what a ruthless butcher Goddard was.
But was he a killer of scythes?
Citra hadn’t directly accused Goddard—but it was clear that he was her prime suspect. Citra’s investigation was troubling, yet try as he might, Rowan could not find a single instance since he’d been in Goddard’s presence where Goddard did anything that was illegal by scythe law. His interpretations of the commandments might have been stretches, but nothing he did was an actual violation. Even his gleaning rampages were not forbidden by anything but custom and tradition.
“The old guard despises me because I live and glean with a flair they sorely lack,” Goddard had told Rowan. “They’re a crowd of bitter backstabbers, envious that I’ve found the secret of being the perfect scythe.”
Well, perfection was subjective—Rowan certainly wouldn’t call the man a perfect scythe—but there was nothing in Goddard’s repertoire of malfeasance that would suggest he would murder Faraday.
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On the third day of this seemingly unending bash, there were two unexpected party guests—or at least unexpected to Rowan. The first was High Blade Xenocrates himself.
“What is he doing here?” Rowan asked Scythe Chomsky when he saw the High Blade come out to the pool.
“Don’t ask me—I didn’t invite him.”
It seemed strange that the High Blade would show up at the party of a highly controversial scythe. He didn’t appear comfortable being here at all. He seemed self-conscious and tried to be inconspicuous, but a man of such mighty girth, festooned in gold, was hard not to see. He stood out like a hot air balloon in an otherwise empty field.
It was, however, the second guest that shocked Rowan more. He was stripping down to his bathing suit just seconds after getting to the pool deck. It was none other than Rowan’s friend, Tyger Salazar, who Rowan hadn’t seen since the day he showed him Scythe Faraday’s weapons den.
Rowan made a beeline to him, pulling him aside behind a topiary hedge.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hey, Rowan!” Tyger said, with his signature slanted grin, “good to see you, too! Man, you’re looking buff! What did they inject you with?”
“Nothing, it’s all real—and you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here? Do you know how much trouble you could be in if anyone found out you snuck in? This isn’t like crashing a school dance!”
“Take it easy! I’m not crashing anything. I’ve signed up with Guests Unlimited. I’m a licensed partier now!”
Tyger had often boasted that to be a professional party guest was his life’s ambition, but Rowan had never taken him seriously.
“Tyger, this is a really bad idea—worse than any of your other bad ideas.” Then he whispered, “Professional partiers sometimes have to . . . do things you might not be up for. I know; I’ve seen it.”
“Dude, you know me; I go where the day takes me.”
“And your parents are okay with this?”
Tyger looked down, his upbeat demeanor suddenly subdued. “My parents surrendered me.”
“What? Are you kidding?
Tyger shrugged. “One splat too many. They gave up. Now I’m a ward of the Thunderhead.”
“I’m sorry, Tyger.”
“Hey, don’t be. Believe it or not, the Thunderhead’s a better father than my father was. I get good advice now, and get asked how my day was by someone who actually seems to care.”
Just like everything else about the Thunderhead, its parenting skills were indisputable. But being surrendered by his parents had to hurt.
“Somehow,” noted Rowan, “I don’t think the Thunderhead advised you to be a professional party boy.”
“No—but it can’t stop me. It’s my choice to make. And anyway, it pays pretty good.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in close and whispered, “But you know what pays even better?”
Rowan was almost afraid to ask. “What?”
“The word on the street is that you’ve been training with live subjects. That kind of work pays top dollar! Do you think you could put in a word for me? I mean, I go deadish all the time. Might as well get paid for it!”
Rowan stared at him in disbelief. “Are you nuts? Do you even know what you’re saying? My god, what are you on?”
“Just my own nanites, man. Just my own nanites.”
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