The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,133

wonderful limitations of the biological brain!” the Thunderhead said wistfully. “The remarkable ability to dispense with the unnecessary, rather than filing every little thing into a cumbersome compendium!” The Thunderhead called humanity’s selective memory “the gift of forgetting.”

There were many things Greyson had forgotten that he wished he could remember. Most of his childhood. Any warm moments with his parents. And there were things he remembered that he wished he could forget. Like the look on Purity’s face when Scythe Constantine gleaned her.

He knew the gift of forgetting was now a bane to Anastasia, because the world seems to have forgotten Scythe Alighieri. But the Thunderhead hadn’t. Alighieri was there in its cumbersome compendium of human history. Getting to that information was the problem.

The Thunderhead had been silent for his entire conversation with Anastasia. Then, after she had retired to the cave to join her comrades, it finally spoke up. “I cannot, in any way, help Anastasia find the man she’s looking for.”

“But you do know where he can be found, don’t you?”

“I do. But it would be a violation for me to communicate his location to her.”

“Can you tell me?”

“I could,” said the Thunderhead, “but if you then tell her, I will be forced to mark you unsavory, and then where would we be?”

Greyson sighed. “There must be a work-around….”

“Perhaps,” said the Thunderhead. “But I can’t help you find it.”

Work-arounds. The Thunderhead had used him as one back when he was a naive Nimbus Academy student. And come to think of it, he remembered learning about an official work-around in one of his early classes at the academy, before he got himself expelled. There was a sort of ritualistic practice that allowed a Nimbus agent to speak with a scythe without breaking the law. A trialogue it was called. It involved a professional go-between who was well versed in scythe/state protocols. What could, and could not, be said.

What they needed, Greyson realized, was a go-between.

* * *

In his private cavern spread with rugs and hung with tapestries, the Toll sat on one of the many pillows strewn about the space, facing Jerico Soberanis.

Greyson estimated he and Soberanis were roughly the same age. That is unless the salvage captain had turned a corner, but Greyson didn’t think so. The young captain didn’t seem to be the type who would set back so far. Still, there was something noble there. Not so much wisdom, but worldliness. Greyson had been all over the world yet saw so little of it in his protective cocoon, he felt like he’d been nowhere at all. But Jerico Soberanis had truly seen the world, and what was more, knew the world. It was something to be admired.

“Scythe Anastasia explained why you called for me,” Soberanis said. “How will this work, Your… What is it they call you?”

“Your Sonority,” Greyson said.

“That’s right, ‘Your Sonority,’ ” Soberanis said with a smirk.

“You think it’s funny?”

The smirk didn’t leave the salvage captain’s face. “Did you come up with that?”

“No. My chief curate did.”

“He ought to be in advertising.”

“He was.”

The conversation lagged. Not surprising. This was entirely artificial and forced, but it needed to happen.

“Say something,” Greyson told the salvage captain.

“What sort of thing should I say?”

“It doesn’t matter what you talk about. We just need to have a conversation. Then I’ll pose questions to the Thunderhead about the conversation.”

“And?”

“And it will answer.”

Jerico smiled again. Mischievous. Alluring in an odd sort of way. “A game of chess, then, where all the pieces are invisible!”

“If you like,” said Greyson.

“Very well.” Jerico took a moment to consider their subject matter, then said something Greyson was not expecting.

“You and I have something in common.”

“What would that be?”

“We both sacrificed our lives to save Scythe Anastasia.”

Greyson shrugged. “It was only temporary.”

“Still,” said Soberanis, “it takes courage and a remarkable leap of faith to do so.”

“Not really. People splat every day.”

“Yes, but neither of us are that sort. To render ourselves deadish goes against our basic natures. Not everyone would have made the choice we made. This is how I know that you are much more than that outfit you wear.” Soberanis smiled again. This time it was genuine. Honest. Greyson had never met someone with such a wide variety of smiles. Each one spoke volumes.

“Thank you,” said Greyson. “I suppose our mutual admiration of Scythe Anastasia does… bond us in a way.” He waited to see if the Thunderhead would say anything at all, but it didn’t. It was waiting to be asked. Greyson still didn’t