Rowan knew what day this was—fireworks outside a week ago had marked the New Year. Today was the eighth of January. Conclave was yesterday. Which meant his immunity had expired.
“Back from conclave already?” Rowan said, feigning to be flip. “I figured you’d spend a few days playing up the whole resurrection thing.”
Goddard ignored him. “I’ve been looking forward to sparring with you,” Goddard said, and the two began to slowly circle each other.
“Sure,” said Rowan. “It will be like old times, back at the mansion. I miss the good old days, don’t you?”
Goddard’s lip twitched just a bit, but he smiled.
“Did things go the way you wanted?” Rowan taunted. “Did the scythedom welcome you back with open arms?”
“Shut up!” said Rand. “You’re here to fight, not to talk.”
“Oooh,” said Rowan. “Sounds to me like things didn’t go according to plan! What happened? Did Xenocrates throw you out? Did they refuse to accept you back?”
“On the contrary, they embraced us with warm arms,” said Goddard. “Especially after I told them how my pathetic apprentice betrayed us and tried to kill us. How poor Chomsky and Volta were the first victims of so-called Scythe Lucifer. I promised them I’d deliver you right into their angry little hands. But not until I’m ready, of course.”
Rowan knew that wasn’t the whole story. He knew when Tyger was lying. He could hear it in his voice, and that hadn’t changed now that the words were Goddard’s. But whatever really happened, he wouldn’t get it out of Goddard.
“Ayn shall referee the match,” Goddard said. “And I intend to be merciless.”
Then Goddard launched himself forward. Rowan did nothing to defend himself. Nothing to dodge the attack. Goddard took him down. Pinned him. Ayn called the match for Goddard. It was far too easy—and Goddard knew it.
“You think you can get away with not fighting back?”
“If I wish to throw a Bokator match, that’s my prerogative,” Rowan said.
Goddard snarled at him. “You have no prerogatives here.” He attacked again, and once more, Rowan fought his own self-defense instincts, and let his body go limp. Goddard took him down like a rag doll, and he raged in fury.
“Fight back, damn it!”
“No,” Rowan said calmly. He glanced to Rand, who actually had a slight grin, although she suppressed it the moment he looked over.
“I will glean everyone who is dear to you if you don’t spar with me!” Goddard said.
Rowan shrugged. “You can’t. Scythe Brahms already gleaned my father, and the rest of my family has immunity for another eleven months. And you can’t take out Citra—she’s already proven herself too smart for that.”
Goddard lunged at him again. This time Rowan just dropped to the ground in cross-legged position.
Goddard paced away. Punched a wall. Left a dent.
“I know what will get him to fight,” Rand said, and stepped forward, addressing Rowan. “Do your best against Goddard,” she said, “and we’ll tell you what happened in conclave.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Goddard insisted.
“Do you want a real match or not?”
Goddard hesitated, then gave in. “Very well.”
Rowan stood up. He had no reason to believe they would keep their word, but as much as he wanted to deny Goddard his match, Rowan also wanted the chance to take him down. To show no more mercy for him than he intended to show for Rowan.
Rand started a new match. The two circled. Again, Goddard made the first move, but this time Rowan countered with a dodge and a well-placed elbow. Goddard smiled now, realizing that the match was truly on.
As they brutally battled, Rowan realized that Goddard was right. Tyger’s brawn and Goddard’s brain were a hard combination to beat. But Rowan was not going to let Goddard have his day. Not now. Not ever. When it came to Bokator, Rowan did his best under pressure, and this time was no exception. He executed a series of moves that left Goddard one beat behind the curve, until Rowan slammed him to the ground and pinned him there.
“Yield!” Rowan shouted.
“No!”
“Yield!” Rowan demanded.
But Goddard did not, so Rand had to call the match.
Then, as soon as Rowan let Goddard go, Goddard got up, strode to a cabinet, pulled out a pistol, and shoved it into Rowan’s ribs. “New rules,” he said, then pulled the trigger, blasting a bullet that shredded through Rowan’s heart and shattered a lamp across the room.
Darkness began to overtake him, but before it did, he let loose a single laugh.
“Cheater,” he said, and died.
• • •
“Uh . . . foul,” said Scythe Rand.
Goddard put the pistol into her hand. “Never end a match until I say so,” he said.
“So that’s it, then?” she asked. “Was that a gleaning?”
“Are you serious? And miss my chance to hurl him at the feet of the Grandslayers at my inquest? Take him to an off-grid revival center. I want him back as soon as possible so I can kill him again.” Then Goddard strode off.
Once he was gone, Rand looked down at Rowan, deadish as deadish gets. His eyes were open, and his lips were still set in a defiant grin. She had once admired him—was jealous of him even—because of the attention Goddard had given him during his apprenticeship. She knew he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as she or Goddard. She suspected he might break—but she never expected he would break so spectacularly. Goddard had no one but himself to blame, putting his trust in a boy who Scythe Faraday chose for his compassion.
Ayn didn’t put much stock in compassion. Never had. She didn’t understand it, and resented those who did. Now Rowan Damisch would be well-punished for his conceited ideals.
She turned to see the guards just standing there, not sure what to do.
“What’s wrong with you? You heard Scythe Goddard! Take him to be revived.”
• • •
Once Rowan was carried off and the unfazed house bot had scrubbed the mat clean of blood, Ayn sat in a chair that looked out at the spectacular view. Although Goddard never praised her for much of anything, she knew she had chosen the right place to stage their return. The Texan scythedom left them alone as long as they didn’t start gleaning there, and the Thunderhead had cameras only in public locations, which made it easier to remain out of its sight. On top of that, it was easier to find off-grid situations, such as the revival center that Rowan was on his way to. They asked no questions as long as they were paid—and although scythes were handed everything for free in this world, off-grid was off-grid. She detached one of the lower emeralds near the hem of her robe and handed it to the guard to give the revival center as payment for their work on Rowan. It was more than enough to cover the cost.
Ayn had never been a schemer. She tended to live in the moment, a student of impulse, motivated by the power of whim. As a child, her parents had called her a will-o’-the-wisp, and she enjoyed being a lethal one. Now, however, she had a taste of being the architect of a long-term plan. She thought it would be easy to step aside and let Goddard take the lead again once he was restored—for what had been done to him was much more of a restoration than a revival—but she was finding his temper and his uncharacteristic impulsiveness in need of balance. Was this the impulsiveness of the 93 percent of him that was Tyger Salazar? There was arrogance in both of them, that was certain. But Tyger’s naivety was replaced by Goddard’s temper. Ayn had to admit she had found Tyger’s guileless, callow nature to be refreshing. But innocence will always be ground up in the gearwork of a greater design—and Goddard was, by Ayn’s estimation, forging a great design that truly excited her. A scythedom void of restraints. A world of whim without consequence.
But dispensing with Tyger Salazar had been much harder than she’d ever expected it would be.
When the guards returned, they informed her that Rowan would be revived in about thirty-six hours, and
she went to tell Goddard. She caught him stepping out of the bathroom, having just taken a shower. He was wrapped only minimally in a towel.
“A bracing match,” he said. “Next time, I’ll beat him.”
That gave her a dark shiver: It was what Tyger always said. “He’ll be back in a day and a half,” she told him, but he was already on to the next topic of conversation.
“I’m beginning to see opportunity in our situation, Ayn,” he said. “The old guard doesn’t realize it—but they may have handed me a pearl within this nasty oyster. I want you to find me all the best engineers.”
“You’ve gleaned all the best engineers,” she reminded him.
“No, not rocket scientists and propulsion engineers—I need structural engineers. Those who understand the dynamics of large structures. And programmers, too. But programmers who are not beholden to either the scythedom or the Thunderhead.”
“I’ll ask around.”
He took a moment to admire himself in a tall mirror—then caught her eyes in the mirror, as well—seeing the way she was looking at him. Ayn resolved not to look away. He turned to her and took a few steps closer.
“You find this physique to your liking?”
She forced a sly grin. “When have I not enjoyed a well-sculpted man?”
“And have you . . . enjoyed this body?”
Finally, she could not hold his gaze and looked away. “No. Not this one.”
“No? That’s not like you, Ayn.”
Now she felt like the one disrobed. Still, she dissembled with her grin. “Maybe I wanted to wait until it was yours.”
“Hmm,” he said, like it was no more than a curiosity. “I do notice that this body expresses quite an attraction to you.”
Then he brushed past her, put on his robe, and strode out, leaving her to lament the full scope of missed opportunity.
37
The Many Deaths of Rowan Damisch
Rowan Damisch? . . . Rowan Damisch!
Where am I? Who is this?
This is the Thunderhead, Rowan.
Are you speaking to me the way you spoke to Citra?
Yes.
I must still be deadish.
You are in between.
Will you step in? Will you stop what Goddard is doing to the scythedom?
I cannot. It would be breaking the law, which I am incapable of doing.
Then will you tell me what I can do?
That would also be a violation.
Then what’s the point of this conversation? Leave me alone and go take care of the world.
I wish to tell you not to lose hope. I have calculated that there is a chance you will have as profound an effect on the world as Citra Terranova. Either as Scythe Lucifer, or as your former self.
Really. How much of a chance?
Thirty-nine percent.
What about the other 61 percent?
My algorithms show that you have a 61 percent chance of permanently dying in the near future, without having any effect of note.
I don’t feel comforted.
You should. A 39 percent chance of changing the world is exponentially greater than most people can ever hope to have.
• • •
Rowan kept a tally on his bedroom wall. It wasn’t a tally of days, it was a tally of deaths. Each time he sparred with Goddard, he won, and each time, Goddard summarily killed him in his fury at losing. It was turning into a rather old joke. “How will you do it today, Your Honor?” he said, turning “Your Honor” into a term of derision. “Can’t you come up with something clever this time?”
The count had reached fourteen. Blade, bullet, blunt force—Goddard had used all methods to kill him. All but poison, which Goddard so despised. Goddard had dialed Rowan’s pain nanites down, so he would feel the full measure of agony. Even so, Goddard was always so infuriated when he lost a match that he couldn’t stop himself from killing Rowan quickly, which meant Rowan’s suffering was never drawn out. He would steel himself against the pain, count to ten, and he was always deadish before he got there.
The Thunderhead spoke to him before his fourteenth revival at the off-grid revival center that was apparently not as off-grid as they thought. Rowan knew it wasn’t a dream, because it had a clarity and intensity different from dreams. He was rude to the Thunderhead. He regretted it, but there was nothing he could do about it now. It would understand. The Thunderhead was all about understanding and empathy.
His biggest takeaway from his brief conversation with the Earth’s governing entity was not that he might change the world, but the realization that he hadn’t done so already. All the corrupt scythes whose lives he ended—none of that changed anything. Scythe Faraday was right. You can’t change the tide by spitting in the sea. You can’t weed a field that’s already gone to seed. Perhaps Faraday’s search for the founders’ failsafe would bring about the change that the slaying of bad scythes couldn’t.
When he opened his eyes after that fourteenth revival, Scythe Rand was waiting for him. Until now, there had been no one. A nurse would arrive eventually, check his vitals, pretend politeness, then call for the guards to retrieve him. But not this time.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Is it my birthday?” and then he realized that it might well have been. He’d been losing so many days between revivals, he had no idea of the date anymore.
“How do you keep doing this?” she asked. “You come back time after time so ready for the next match, it disgusts me.” She stood up. “You should be crushed! I can’t stand that you’re not!”
“It’s my pleasure to be your displeasure.”
“Let him win!” she insisted. “That’s all you have to do!”
“And then what?” Rowan said, sitting up. “Once he wins, he has no reason not to end me.”
Then Rand got quiet. “He needs you alive,” she told him, “so he can throw you at the mercy of the Grandslayers during his inquest.”
Rand had kept her promise after his first revival—she told him what had happened in conclave. About the vote for High Blade, and how Citra had thrown a monkey wrench into the works.
“The Grandslayers’ only mercy,” said Rowan, “will be to glean me quickly.”
“Yes,” agreed Rand. “So in the meantime, these last days of yours will be better for you if you let. Goddard. Win.”
Last days, thought Rowan. His death tally really must not have marked an accurate passage of time if there were only days left until the inquest. It was scheduled for the first of April. Were they already approaching that?
“Would you have asked me to let Tyger win?” he put to her—and for a moment, Rowan thought he caught something in Scythe Rand. A twinge of regret, perhaps? A spark of conscience? He didn’t think she was capable of that, but it was worth a deeper probe.
“Of course not,” Rand said. “Because Tyger didn’t slit your throat or rip your heart out when he lost.”
“Well, at least Goddard hasn’t blown my brains out.”
“Because he wants you to remember,” said Rand. “He wants you to know everything he’s done to you.”
Rowan actually found that amusing. Goddard couldn’t do his worst because Rowan’s memory construct, stored in the Thunderhead’s backbrain, hadn’t been backed up since he went off-grid. So if Goddard damaged Rowan’s brain, the last thing he’d remember once he was revived would be his capture by Scythe Brahms. All his suffering at Goddard’s hands would be erased—and suffering erased was the same as no suffering at all.
Now, as he looked at Rand, he wondered what sort of suffering she endured under Goddard’s hand. Certainly not the same as Rowan’s, but there was misery there nonetheless. An ache. A yearning. Tyger was long dead now, but he was still very much present.
“At first I blamed Goddard for what happened to Tyger,” Rowan said, calmly. “But it wasn’t Goddard’s choice, it was yours.”
“You turned on us. You broke my spine. I had to drag myself out of that burning chapel with noth
ing but my arms.”
“Payback,” said Rowan, tamping down the anger he felt. “I understand payback. But you miss him, don’t you? You miss Tyger.” It was not a question, but an observation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rand.
“Yes, you do.” Rowan paused, letting it sink in. “Did you at least grant his family immunity?”
“Didn’t have to. His parents surrendered him long before he turned eighteen. When I found him, he was living alone.”
“Did you at least let them know that he was dead?”
“Why should I?” said Rand, getting defensive. “And why should I care?”
Rowan knew he had her in a corner now, and wanted to gloat, but didn’t. As in a Bokator match, one didn’t gloat when an opponent was pinned. One merely asked the fallen foe to yield.
“It must be awful to look at Goddard now,” Rowan said, “and realize he’s no longer the one you love.”
Rand became as icy as cryo. “The guards will bring you back,” she told him as she left. “And if you ever try to get into my head again, I’ll be the one who blows your brains out.”
• • •
Rowan died six more times before the matches stopped. Not once did he let Goddard win. Not that Goddard didn’t come close to winning on his own, but there was still a disconnect between mind and body that Rowan was always able to exploit.
“You will suffer the greatest agony of all,” Goddard told him after he was revived from their final bout. “You will be gleaned in the presence of the Grandslayers, and you will disappear. You won’t be a footnote in history, you will be erased from it. It will be as if you had never lived.”
“I can see how that would be a horrifying thought for you,” Rowan told Goddard. “But I don’t have a burning need to make my existence the center of the universe. Disappearing is fine with me.”
Goddard paused to look at him in abject disgust that for a moment decayed into regret. “You could have been among the greatest of scythes,” Goddard told him. “You could have been by my side, redefining our presence in this world.” He shook his head. “Few things are sadder than squandered potential.”
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