Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,39
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.”