The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,87
way that will leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that Scythe Lucifer is gone forever. Vanquished and extinguished for all time.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I will not mourn you,” Rand told him, “and when you’re gone, I’ll be relieved.”
He accepted it as true, because it was. “You know, Scythe Rand—there’s going to come a point when Goddard’s ego gets so far out of control that even you can see the danger of it—but by then he’ll be so powerful, there won’t be anyone left to challenge him.”
Ayn wanted to deny it, but she felt gooseflesh rising. Her own physiology telling her that there was truth in what he said. No, she wouldn’t mourn Scythe Lucifer. But once he was gone, there would still be plenty to worry about.
“You really are just like him,” she said. “You both twist people’s minds until they don’t know which way is up. So you’ll excuse me if I never speak to you again.”
“You will,” Rowan said with absolute certainty. “Because after he ends me, he’ll make you dispose of whatever’s left of me, the way you disposed of what was left of Tyger. And then, when no one’s listening, you’ll snipe at my charred bones, just so you can have the last word. Maybe you’ll even spit on them. But it won’t make you feel any better.”
And it was infuriating. Because she knew he was right on every count.
27 Tenkamenin’s Pleasure Dome
The Spence traversed the Atlantic with Scythe Anastasia, sailing a direct course for the region of SubSahara, on the Afric continent. It was a distance much shorter than most people might think, taking just under three days. They arrived in the coastal town of Port Remembrance while the North Merican scythes were still searching for Anastasia in the far reaches of South Merica.
In mortal days, Port Remembrance had been known as Monrovia, but the Thunderhead decided that the region’s dark history of subjugation and slavery, followed by poorly planned repatriation, warranted an entirely new name that would offend absolutely no one. Naturally, people were offended. But the Thunderhead stuck to its decision—and, as with all decisions the Thunderhead made, it turned out to be the right one.
Scythe Anastasia was met by SubSahara’s High Blade Tenkamenin himself upon her arrival—as a vocal opponent of Goddard, he had agreed to provide her secret sanctuary.
“So much ado about a junior scythe!” he said in a booming, genial voice as he greeted her. His robe was colorful and meticulously designed to pay homage to every historical culture in the region. “Not to worry, little one, you’re safe and among friends.”
While Citra found Possuelo’s meu anjo—my angel—endearing, being called “little one” felt diminutive. She held her head high as Scythe Anastasia and, in the name of diplomacy, did not comment. Instead Jeri did.
“Not so little,” Jeri said.
The High Blade threw Jeri a dubious gaze. “And you are?”
“Jerico Soberanis, captain of the vessel that so successfully brought Scythe Anastasia into your welcoming arms.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Tenkamenin said. “A scavenger of note.”
“Salvager,” Jeri corrected. “I find what’s lost, and fix things that are beyond repair.”
“Noted,” said Tenkamenin. “Thank you for your fine service.” Then the High Blade put a fatherly arm around Anastasia, leading her away from the dock with his entourage. “Oh, but you must be tired and hungry for something more than maritime fare. We have all things prepared for your comfort.”
Jeri, however, kept pace with them until Tenkamenin asked, “Have you not been paid? Surely Possuelo has taken care of that.”
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency,” Jeri said, “but Scythe Possuelo specifically assigned me to be by Scythe Anastasia’s side at all times. I sincerely hope you’re not asking me to violate that order.”
The High Blade heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well,” he said, then turned to his entourage as if it was a single entity. “Set an extra place for our fine Madagascan captain at dinner and prepare an adequate room.”
Finally, Anastasia spoke up. “Adequate will not be adequate,” she told the High Blade. “Jerico risked everything to bring me here, and should be treated with the same courtesy as you treat me.”
The entourage braced for something volcanic, but after a moment, the High Blade laughed heartily.
“Spunk,” he said, “is highly valued here. We will get along!” Then he turned to Jeri. “Captain, forgive me, but I love to toy. I mean nothing by it. You are most welcome here as an esteemed guest, and will be treated as such.”