The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,33
I have never truly understood that craving.”
“You and the Thunderhead,” noted Loriana.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s incorruptible. It seems like you both have that in common.”
Munira let off a short laugh in agreement. Faraday was not at all amused. He hadn’t shown an ounce of good humor since Loriana had told him what had happened on Endura last month. Now she regretted having told him at all.
“I am far from perfect and far from blameless,” he said. “I’ve made many a selfish mistake in my time. Such as taking two apprentices when one would have been sufficient. Such as falsifying my own death to save them, and foolishly convincing myself I could do more good if no one knew I was alive.”
Clearly there were deep levels of pain for him in these memories, but he let the shadow of the moment pass.
“You found this place,” Munira said. “I think that is a huge accomplishment.”
“Is it?” said Faraday. “There’s no proof that discovering this place has helped anyone at all.”
They turned their gazes to the various activities going on around them. Unskilled attempts at spearfishing. Clusters of conversations as people formed cliques and jockeyed for position. Incompetence and intrigue. A microcosm of humanity.
“Why did you come here?” Loriana asked.
Munira and Faraday looked at each other. Faraday said nothing, so Munira answered.
“Scythe business. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“Secrets won’t help us survive in this place,” Loriana told them, which caused Faraday to raise an eyebrow. Then he turned to Munira.
“You may tell her about the founders’ fail-safe,” Faraday said. “As we haven’t discovered it yet, it’s still no more than a fairy tale. A story to keep scythes awake at night.”
But before Munira could offer an explanation, Sykora approached them.
“It’s decided,” Sykora said. “I’ve spoken to a majority of our agents, and they have clearly expressed a desire for me to be in charge.”
This, Loriana knew, was a lie. He had spoken to five or six agents, at most. She did know, however, that quite a few of the survivors were her superiors. If it came down to it, even if they didn’t want Sykora in charge, they would never put Loriana in the position. Who was she fooling? Her moment was over the instant the pods opened on the beach.
“Of course, Mr. Sykora,” said Faraday. “We shall defer to you in all things relating to your people. Munira, will you brief Mr. Sykora on the belongings that have washed up onshore? He’ll be in charge of distribution.”
Munira gave Loriana a small shrug and left with Sykora, who was puffed and prideful now that his indignation had been rewarded.
Loriana’s sense of humiliation must have been obvious, because Faraday gave her the gravest of looks. “You disapprove?”
“You said it yourself, Your Honor—Sykora’s power hungry. I never said I should be the one in charge, but if there’s one thing I know, Sykora should not be.”
Faraday leaned a bit closer. “I have found that building a sandbox around a domineering child, then allowing that child to preside over it, frees the adults to do the real work.”
It was a perspective Loriana had never considered. “And what is the real work?”
“While Mr. Sykora is sorting waterlogged shirts and sundries, you will take over the task of the late director, and be the Thunderhead’s eyes in the one place it cannot see.”
* * *
“Why?” Munira asked Faraday the first moment she could get him alone, away from the eavesdropping ears of Nimbus agents. “Why would you want to help that girl?”
“The Thunderhead is going to expand into this place whether we like it or not,” Faraday told her. “It was inevitable from the moment it saw the map over our shoulders. Best that it does so through someone who’s easier to get along with than Sykora.”
Up above a bird let off a warbling call. A creature—perhaps even a species—that the Thunderhead had never seen. Munira found satisfaction in knowing something the Thunderhead didn’t. But it wouldn’t remain that way for long.
“I want you to befriend Loriana,” Faraday said. “Truly befriend her.”
For Munira, who considered her closest friends to be the dead scythes whose journals she read in the Library of Alexandria, the request was a formidable one.
“What good will that do?”
“You need a comrade among these people. Someone trustworthy who can keep you informed when the Thunderhead finally does make an appearance.”
It was a sensible request. Although Munira couldn’t help but notice Faraday had said “you” and not “we.”