“As I recall, you were the one who seconded Scythe Curie’s nomination for High Blade, were you not?”
Apparently Goddard wasn’t wasting time with small talk. He was going straight for the jugular.
“Yes,” said Morrison, “but I can explain…”
“No need,” said Goddard. “I enjoy a vigorous competition.”
“Especially,” added Rand, “one that you win.”
It made Morrison think of the games he liked to watch, where the outcome was already determined, so he knew which team to root for.
“Yes. Well, at any rate,” said Goddard, “neither you nor our friend Constantine had any idea that I was waiting in the wings, planning a grand entrance when the nomination was made.”
“No, Your Honor, I did not.” Then he caught himself. “I mean, Your Excellency.”
Goddard made a point of looking him over. “The gems on your robe add a nice touch,” he said. “Are they a fashion statement, or something more?”
Jim swallowed. “More,” he said, hoping it was the right answer. He glanced at Rand, who was clearly happy to watch him squirm. “I was never actually aligned with the old guard,” Morrison told them. “I nominated Curie, because I thought it would impress Scythe Anastasia.”
“And why would you want to impress her?” Goddard asked.
Trick question, thought Morrison. And he decided it was better to be nailed by the truth than to be caught in a lie. “I had the feeling that she was going places – and so I figured if I impressed her—”
“You might get pulled along in her wake?”
“Yes, something like that.”
Goddard nodded, accepting the explanation. “Well, she did go somewhere. Although to be more precise, I suspect she went multiple places before she was fully digested.”
Morrison chuckled nervously, then stifled himself.
“And so now,” said Goddard, indicating Morrison’s gem-covered robe, “do you seek to impress me?”
“No, Your Excellency,” he said, once more hoping it was the right answer. “I don’t want to impress anyone anymore. I just want to be a good scythe.”
“What makes a good scythe, in your estimation?”
“A scythe who follows the laws and customs of the scythedom, as interpreted by their High Blade.”
Goddard was now unreadable – but Morrison noticed that Rand’s grin had faded, and she looked more serious. He couldn’t help but feel that he had just passed some sort of test. Or failed it.
Then Goddard clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I have a job for you,” he said. “A job that will prove that your loyalty isn’t just a fashion statement.”
Goddard took a moment to look out at the eastern view. Morrison joined him.
“You are no doubt aware that the Tonists have found themselves a prophet who is uniting the various factions of their cult around the world.”
“Right. The Toll.”
“The Tonists are the enemies of all we represent. They don’t respect us, or our calling. Their adherence to fictional doctrine threatens to undermine our society. They are weeds that need to be pulled out at the root. Therefore, I want you to infiltrate the Tonist enclave that shields this so-called Toll. And then I want you to glean him.”
The scope of the request was so great, it made Morrison light-headed. Glean the Toll? Was he really being asked to glean the Toll?
“Why me?”
“Because,” said Goddard, his robe shimmering in the late afternoon light, “they would see a more accomplished scythe coming from miles away, but would never expect me to send a junior scythe like yourself. And besides, no one will be able to get a weapon near him. What we need is a scythe who can glean with his bare hands.”
That made Morrison smile.
“Then I’m your scythe.”
That door, that door, that accursed door!
I have not seen it for almost a year. I have sworn never to seek what lies behind it. I am done with it, just as I am done with the world, and yet there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of that infernal door.
Were the founding scythes insane? Or perhaps they were wiser than anyone gave them credit for. Because by requiring two scythes present to open that door, it ensured that a madman like myself could not access the fail-safe, whatever it might be. Only two scythes in perfect agreement could breach the chamber and save the scythedom.
Fine. I could not care less. Let the world tear itself to shreds. Let the secrets of the founders remain hidden for all eternity. It serves them right for leaving it so well concealed. It was their choice to consign it to myth and nursery rhyme. To bury it in esoteric maps locked in arcane rooms. Did they truly expect someone to come along and solve their riddle? Let it all crumble to nothing. My sleep is peaceful without testing the weight of the world. I am responsible only for myself now. No gleaning. No endless moral quandaries. I have become a simple man, content with simple thoughts. The patching of my roof. The patterns of the tide. Yes, simple. I must remember not to complicate. I must remember.
But that damnable door! Perhaps the founders were not wise at all. Perhaps they were ignorant and terrified and sorely naive in their idealism. Here were twelve people who dared imagine themselves angels of death, clothing themselves in flamboyant robes just to be noticed. They must have seemed ridiculous until the day they actually did change the world.
Did they ever doubt themselves? They must have, because they had a backup plan. But would the backup plan of frightened revolutionaries be elegant? Or would it be ugly and reek of mediocrity? For, after all, it was the plan they didn’t choose.
What if their alternate solution is worse than the problem?
Which is one more reason to stop thinking about it, to renew my resolve to never, ever seek it, and to stay far, far away from that infuriating, detestable door.
—From the “postmortem” journal of
Scythe Michael Faraday,
June 1st, Year of the Ibex
19
Islet of Solitude
Faraday wanted no part of Kwajalein anymore. On the horizon he could see structures rising; ships came each week with more supplies, more workers toiling like drones to turn the atoll into something it was not. What was the Thunderhead up to in this place?
Kwajalein was his find. His triumphant discovery. The Thunderhead had brazenly jumped his claim. Although Faraday was curious, he didn’t give in to that curiosity. He was a scythe, and he flatly refused to have anything to do with a work of the Thunderhead.
He could have banished it from the atoll if he’d chosen to – after all, as a scythe, and above the law, he could demand anything, and the Thunderhead would have to abide by it. He could have proclaimed that it was not allowed within a hundred nautical miles of Kwajalein, and it would have had no choice but to retreat to the precise distance he had ordered it to, taking all its construction equipment and workers with it.
But Faraday didn’t assert his claim. He didn’t banish the Thunderhead.
Because ultimately, he trusted its instincts more than he trusted his own. So Faraday banished himself instead.
There were ninety-seven islands in the Kwajalein Atoll, making up the broken, dotted rim of a submerged volcanic crater. Surely he could claim one as his own. He set aside his mission in those early days and appropriated a small raft that had arrived with the first supply ships. Then he took it to one of the islands on the far rim of the atoll. The Thunderhead respected his choice and left him alone. It kept his tiny little island out of its plans.