The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,80

here, the other scythes wouldn’t even know he was still alive… and he would be respected. Maybe it was only by Tonists, but it was still respect, and that was something he desperately wanted.

“I’ll tell you what,” said the Toll. “Why don’t I take the first leap of faith.” Then he pulled out a pair of scissors and, amazingly, began cutting Morrison’s bonds. He started down at his feet, then moved up to his arms, slowly, meticulously snipping each one.

“The curates won’t be happy,” the Toll said as he snipped. “Screw the curates.”

Then, when the last bond was cut, Morrison leaped up and clamped a hand around the Toll’s throat.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life!” Morrison growled.

“Go ahead, glean me,” the Toll said, not an ounce of fear in his voice. “You’ll never escape. Even with their bumbling, you can’t get past so many guards. It’s not like you’re Scythe Lucifer.”

That just made him squeeze a little bit tighter—tight enough to shut him up. The Toll was right—right about so many things. If Morrison completed his mission, he’d be killed and burned by the Tonists outside that door. They’d both be dead, and the only winner would be Goddard.

“Are you done?” the Toll rasped.

And somehow, having him in this position, knowing that he could glean the Toll if he wanted to—was just as satisfying as actually gleaning him. But without the unpleasant consequence of having to die as well. Morrison released his grip, and the Toll sucked in a deep breath.

“So what do I do now? Take a pledge of loyalty?” said Morrison, only half joking.

“A simple handshake will do,” the Toll said. Then he put out his hand. “My real name is Greyson. But you’ll have to call me Your Sonority.”

Morrison gripped the Toll’s hand with the same one that had been at the Toll’s throat a moment ago. “My real name’s Joel. But you’ll have to call me Jim.”

“It’s good to meet you, Jim.”

“Same here, Your Sonority.”

Scythe Morrison had to admit this was the last way he had expected this day to go, but all things considered, he couldn’t complain.

And he didn’t. For more than two years.

Part Three YEAR OF THE COBRA

There is, I believe, a destiny for us. A glorious culmination of all it means to be human and immortal. Destiny, however, does not come without exhaustive effort and clear-minded leadership.

The Year of the Raptor was devastating to us all, but by the Year of the Ibex we had begun to heal. The Year of the Quokka saw us further aligning our ideals and priorities as scythes. Now, on the first day of this new year, I see only hope for the days ahead.

Here, at this First Continental Conclave, I wish to publicly thank High Blades Pickford of WestMerica, Hammerstein of EastMerica, Tizoc of Mexiteca, and MacPhail of NorthernReach for their faith in me. That they—and you, the scythes under them—have chosen me to shepherd North Merica as your continental Overblade is beyond validation; it is a clear mandate to push forward with our new-order objective. Together we will create a world that is not only perfect, but also pristine. A world where the broad and powerful swath of each scythe brings us ever closer to that singular goal.

I know that there are still those among you who, like the recalcitrant LoneStar region, are not sure that mine is the right path. The uneasy among you look for “method in the madness,” as they say. But I ask you, is it madness to want to lift the human species to new heights? Is it wrong to have a vision of a future as crystal clear and finely cut as the diamonds on our hands? Of course not.

I wish to make it clear that your High Blades will not be abdicating their positions. They will still be stewards of your respective regions, responsible for local administration—however, they will now be free from the burden of more cumbersome policy decisions. Those larger issues are left to me. And I promise that I will live for no other purpose but to lead you tirelessly into the future.

—From the ascension address of His Excellency, Overblade Robert Goddard, January 1st, Year of the Cobra

24 Rats in a Ruin

Fort Saint-Jean and Fort Saint-Nicolas were built on either side of the entrance to the port of Marseille, in what was now the FrancoIberian region of Europe. What was odd about these forts, built by King Louis XIV, was not the fact