stirred awake by the revival nurse’s gentle voice.
She uncurled from her chair and stretched out the kink in her neck. Jeri was alive again, and much more alert than she. “Good morning,” Citra said groggily—then realized it sounded far too weak for a scythe. Even one who was currently incognito. She cleared her throat and spoke with more confidence. “Good morning,” Anastasia said.
“Nothing good about it, I’m afraid,” said the nurse. “I’ve never seen so many BladeGuards roaming the streets. The scythedom is still looking for those terrible Tonists who ended the High Blade, but they’re long gone, off to wherever it is people like that hide.”
Anastasia closed her eyes as the terror of that night came back to her. So many people had lost their lives, and although some were revived, there simply weren’t enough ambudrones to save everyone. Sibilants must have thrown dozens, maybe hundreds, into the fire. And, just as they had a plan of attack, they must have had a plan for escape.
The nurse explained that, in the day and a half since the ambudrone had left them here, Port Remembrance had been put on complete lockdown. The situation in North Merica was probably even worse. What Goddard had done in that stadium was beyond a line in the sand—it was a fissure. Either you embraced his way, or you ran from it. There were plenty of people doing both.
Anastasia knew she might be recognized. Now that she had gone public, and people knew she was alive, it would be much harder to hide.
“Seeing as you’re awake, I’m sure there’ll be scythes in to see you,” the nurse told Jeri. “Not to worry—they’re not here to glean, just to question. You both worked at the palace, didn’t you? They want to question everyone who was there.”
Jeri glanced at Anastasia as she put a comforting hand on the shoulder she had dislocated not so long ago.
“Right,” said Jeri. “Well, I suppose we’ll be looking for new jobs.”
“Oh, don’t concern yourselves with that. The Thunderhead might not be talking these days, but it still puts up the job listings. If you want work again, there’s plenty to be had.”
After she left, Jeri raised the head of the revival bed a bit higher and smiled at Anastasia. “So what was it like riding the back of an ambudrone?”
“It… wasn’t like that,” Anastasia said, but chose to spare Jeri the details. “I never got to thank you for what you did.”
“I just did my job,” Jeri said.
“Your job is to be a salvage captain, not this.”
“And didn’t I salvage an unsalvageable situation?”
“Yeah, you did,” Anastasia told Jeri with a smile. “Now we have to salvage this one, and get out of here before someone comes in to question us.”
But no sooner had she said it than the door swung open. It was a scythe. Anastasia’s heart seized for a moment until she realized who it was. Forest-green robe, concerned expression.
“My relief at seeing both of you can only be matched by my fear that someone else might,” Scythe Possuelo said. “No time for greetings—the SubSaharan scythes are already questioning why I’m here.”
“I haven’t been recognized yet.”
“Of course you have,” Possuelo said. “I’m sure the nursing staff here is all secretly atwitter about it. But luckily none of them have reported you—or you would already be on your way to Goddard. I’m here to escort you to a place of greater safety, where you can continue your broadcasts. More and more people are listening, Anastasia—and they’re finding the things you’ve been leading them to. Goddard is threatening to glean anyone caught poking around in the backbrain, but that’s not stopping people.”
“He couldn’t enforce it anyway,” Anastasia pointed out. “The backbrain is out of scythe jurisdiction.” It reminded Anastasia how much digging she still had left to do.
“So what place of safety do you propose?” Jeri asked. “Is there such a place anymore?”
“Who can say?” Possuelo said. “Safe places are dwindling just as quickly as enemies mount.” He paused, considering something. “There are rumors… of a place so out of sight not even the most well-traveled scythes know of it.”
“Sounds more like wishful thinking,” Jeri said. “Where did you hear this?”
Possuelo offered an apologetic shrug. “Rumors are like rain through an old roof. The effort of finding the source is greater than the cost of a new roof.” Then he paused again. “There’s another rumor, though, that might be more useful to us. This one’s about the Toll—the Tonists’ so-called prophet.”
Tonists, thought