The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,69

was not. The dagger was pulled from his hand, and he was apprehended, forced to the floor, and his hands were shackled by a metallic restraining device too absurdly offensive to be anything but a relic of the mortal age.

Once he was in hand, a scythe approached.

“Turn him to face me,” she ordered. She was the one who had first spoken in his cell. The one in charge of this operation. He only faintly recognized her. She wasn’t one of the MidMerican scythes, but Rowan knew he had seen her face before.

“All those who you so viciously rendered deadish here shall be revived.” She was so full of fury and rancor, spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke. “They shall be revived and stand witness against you.”

“If I had meant to end them permanently,” Rowan said, “I would have.”

“Nevertheless, your crimes today have earned you death many times over.”

“You mean in addition to the deaths I’ve already earned? Sorry, but they all begin to blur together.”

It only served to infuriate her more, as was his intention. “Not just death,” she told him, “but pain. Extreme pain—which has been approved by the North Merican Overblade under certain circumstances—and your circumstances warrant a great deal of punitive suffering.”

It wasn’t the mention of pain that troubled him, but the idea of a “North Merican Overblade.”

“Render him deadish so that he gives us no more trouble,” she ordered one of the guards. “We’ll revive him later.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Excellency?” Rowan said. Only High Blades were referred to that way. Then it finally occurred to him who she was. “High Blade Pickford of WestMerica?” he said, incredulous. “Does Goddard control your region, too?”

The redness of her furious face gave him his answer.

“I wish I didn’t have to revive you at all,” Pickford spat, “but that’s not my decision to make.” Then she turned to the guards holding him. “Make it bloodless—there’s more than enough mess today.”

Then one of the guards crushed his windpipe, delivering Rowan one more in a long line of unpleasant deaths.

* * *

Scythe Possuelo unsheathed his blade the moment he saw scythes who were not wearing the traditional green of the Amazonian scythedom. Never mind that scythe-on-scythe violence was forbidden. It would be worth whatever punishment he might receive. But when the High Blade of WestMerica appeared behind the other scythes, he thought better of it. He quickly sheathed his blade, but kept his tongue sharp.

“By whose authority do you violate the jurisdiction of the Amazonian scythedom?” he demanded.

“We need no permission to apprehend a global criminal,” said High Blade Pickford, wielding her voice just as powerfully as any blade. “On whose authority were you protecting him?”

“We were detaining him, not protecting him.”

“So you say. Well, he’s not your concern anymore,” she told him. “An ambudrone under our control has already carried him to our plane.”

“There will be consequences if you proceed with this action!” Possuelo threatened. “I assure you.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Pickford said. “Where is Scythe Anastasia?”

“She’s no criminal.”

“Where is she?”

“Not here,” Possuelo finally told her.

And then from the shadows came that weasel Peixoto—who had clearly sold them out to gain Goddard’s favor.

“He’s lying,” said Peixoto. “They’re keeping her in a room at the end of this corridor.”

“Search all you want,” said Possuelo, “but you won’t find her. She’s long gone.”

Pickford motioned to the other scythes and BladeGuards in her company to search. They flooded past Possuelo, peering into every room and niche they passed. He allowed it, because he knew they’d find nothing.

“I’ve already notified my High Blade of this intrusion,” Possuelo said, “and a new edict has just been given. Any North Merican scythe caught on Amazonian territory shall be captured and forced to self-glean.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I suggest you leave before reinforcements arrive to carry out the edict. And be so kind as to let your so-called Overblade know that neither he, nor any puppet-scythe working on his behalf, is welcome in Amazonia.”

Pickford indignantly stared him down, but he did not yield. Finally, her cold facade seemed to give way. Now Possuelo had a glimpse of what was truly beneath it. She was tired. Defeated.

“Very well,” she said. “But believe me, if Goddard is determined to find her, he will.”

Her entourage returned, unsuccessful in their search, and she ordered them to leave, but Possuelo was not ready to let her go yet.

“What happened to you, Mary?” he asked, and the honest disappointment in his voice was hard for her to ignore. “Just last year, didn’t you say that