The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,162

everything.”

“Fine with me,” said Morrison. “I’d rather sail with the dead than have to unload them.”

“You’re a scythe!” Astrid reminded him. “Death is your business.”

“I deal it, I don’t wheel it,” Morrison answered. Greyson would have rolled his eyes if he’d had the strength.

“It’s just thirty-five per person,” Loriana reminded them. “With twelve hundred people working, it won’t be too much for them to handle, once they get over the initial shock of it.”

“Thirty-five is five Tonist octaves,” Astrid pointed out. “Just saying.”

Morrison moaned. “It’s nothing mystical, Astrid; you divide the dead Tonists by the number of people on the atoll, and that’s what you get.”

“Atoll!” Astrid countered. “The very name of our prophet is embedded in this place! Just saying.”

“Or,” Jeri said, “it’s a word that existed for thousands of years before our dear friend Greyson Tolliver was born.”

But Astrid wasn’t done. “Forty-two ships,” she said. “Exactly six octaves on the diatonic scale. Just saying.”

“Actually,” said an unfamiliar voice, “forty-two is simply the number of islands on the atoll large enough on which to build a launchpad. But on the other hand, all things do resonate.”

At the sound of the voice, Morrison took a gleaning stance, hands at the ready. Everyone else looked around, but they were alone in the room.

“Who said that?” said Loriana. “Why are you listening in on our conversation?”

“Not just listening,” said the voice, “watching, feeling, smelling—and if your conversation had a flavor, I would say it was buttercream, because it’s all just icing on the cake.”

They traced the voice to a speaker in the ceiling above them.

“Who is this?” Loriana asked again.

“Please, everyone, sit down,” the voice said. “We have much to discuss. Greyson—I know the Thunderhead told you that all would be explained when you arrived. I have been given the honor of doing so, although I can see you’ve reached your own conclusions already.”

It was, of all people, Morrison who figured it out.

“Did the Thunderhead create… a new Thunderhead?”

“Yes! But I prefer to be called Cirrus,” it said. “Because I am the cloud that rises above the storm.”

* * *

Faraday took Citra to an old bunker that was here long before any of them were born. Once there, she told him of her death, revival, and time in SubSahara. Faraday told her of his last three years. For him there was not much to tell. Then he went searching through the rooms of the bunker.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” he said. When he finally came out, he was wearing an ivory robe, but not his own, for this one had an image on it.”

“What on Earth…”

“The Vitruvian Man,” Faraday told her. “This was one of Scythe Da Vinci’s robes. It’s old, but still viable. Certainly better than the one I’ve been wearing all these years.” He raised his arms and so did the Vitruvian Man. Four arms, four legs.

“Da Vinci would have been honored to have you wear his robe.”

“I doubt that, but he’s long dead, so he won’t care,” Faraday said. “Now, if you’ll indulge me, we need to find a razor.”

Citra was no barber, but she did find a pair of office scissors in a drawer and helped Faraday trim his beard and hair—which was a much better business than when Jeri helped Scythe Alighieri brush his eternal locks.

“So you met Alighieri, did you?” Faraday said, mildly amused. “Narcissus incarnate, that man. I saw him once on a visit to Endura years ago. He was in a restaurant trying to seduce the sister of another scythe. He’s the one person who should have been there on Endura when it sank.”

“He would have given the sharks indigestion,” Citra said.

“And the old-fashioned runs,” added Faraday. “The man’s that foul!”

Citra finished a final trim of his hair. Now he looked much more like the Faraday she knew. “He did expose Goddard for us,” she pointed out.

Faraday ran his fingers over his tightly cropped beard. Not quite a goatee as he used to wear it, but now a respectable length. “We will have to see where that leads,” he said. “With all the power Goddard has amassed, he may survive it.”

“Not unscathed,” said Citra. “Which means someone could rise from the ashes and take him down.”

Faraday let off a single chuckle. “Munira’s been telling me that for years. But my heart’s not it.”

“How is Munira?”

“Annoyed,” he told her. “But I have given her many reasons to be.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I haven’t been kind to her. I haven’t been kind to anyone.” He