The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,89

I’ll have to have something to say.”

“You will,” Tenka said with such certainty that it made her wonder what he had in mind. “We have stumbled across some information of the most incriminating kind,”

“Incrimination in a world without crime or nations,” said Baba. “Imagine that.”

Tenkamenin laughed, and Scythe Makeda rolled her eyes. Then the High Blade reached across the table and placed a small origami swan on Anastasia’s empty bread plate. “Secrets folded upon secrets,” he said with a grin. “Tell me, Anastasia, how skilled are you at digging through the Thunderhead’s backbrain?”

“Very,” she told him.

“Good,” said Tenkamenin. “When you unfold the swan, you’ll find something to get you started.”

Anastasia turned the swan over in her fingers. “What will I be looking for?”

“You must blaze that path. I won’t tell you what to look for, because if I do, you’ll miss the things you would intuitively find.”

“The things we probably missed,” added Makeda. “We need fresh eyes on this.”

“And besides,” said Scythe Baba, triple-teaming her. “It’s not enough for you to know—you’ve got find it—so you can show others how to find it, too.”

“Precisely,” said Tenkamenin. “A successful lie is not fueled by the liar; it is fueled by the willingness of the listener to believe. You can’t expose a lie without first shattering the will to believe it. That is why leading people to truth is so much more effective than merely telling them.”

Tenkamenin’s words hung in the air, and Anastasia looked at the swan again, not wanting to ruin it by unfolding its delicate wings.

“Once you draw your own conclusions, we’ll share what we know,” said Tenkamenin. “I guarantee you, your excursion into the backbrain will be a most eye-opening experience.”

28 Dark Celebrity

Everyone was invited. And when the Overblade sets forth an invitation, it was not to be ignored. Which meant the stadium would most certainly be filled to capacity.

Goddard had put out a public call to all souls under the umbrella of his influence. It was a rare thing for a scythe—much less a powerful scythe—to have anything to do with ordinary people. Communications with the rest of humankind were usually limited to bullet, blade, bludgeon, and the occasional poison. Scythes simply didn’t feel the need to speak to the masses. They were not elected officials and had no one to answer to besides one another. There was no reason to win over the hearts of the people when your sole purpose in their lives was to stop those hearts from beating.

So when Overblade Goddard himself personally broadcast the invitation, people everywhere took notice. In spite of his fortified tower, Goddard claimed to be a scythe of the people—and here was the evidence. He was willing to share his triumph with ordinary people in all walks of life. In the end, people’s craving to be close to the continent’s most celebrated scythes was stronger than the fear of them. Tickets were gone within five minutes of being made available. Everyone else would have to view the event in their homes and places of business.

And for those lucky enough to get tickets to the execution, they knew they’d be witnessing history. They could tell their children, and their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren, and their great-great-grandchildren that they were there the day that Scythe Lucifer was gleaned.

They didn’t fear Scythe Lucifer the way scythes did, but they did despise him, because not only did they blame him for the death of Endura, but also the silence of the Thunderhead and their own unsavory status. The world was being punished for his actions. He was, as Goddard so bluntly put it, the receptacle of the world’s hatred. So naturally they would show up in force to witness his terrible end.

* * *

There were no longer such things as armored vehicles. Most vehicles were impenetrable by nature now. Even so, a special transport truck was built in a matter of days for Scythe Lucifer, complete with visible steel rivets and barred windows. It was a straight line on a high-speed highway from Fulcrum City to Mile High City, where his gleaning would take place—but the route the motorcade took was a serpentine meander that passed through as many MidMerican cities as possible before arriving at its destination. A drive that would have taken a day took nearly a week.

Rowan knew his gleaning would be exploited for its public relations value, but he had not expected to be flaunted in this way.

There were more than a dozen vehicles in the motorcade. Members