The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,130

Why, people wondered, when there was an entire planet on which to expand? It would be maybe 100,000 years before a scythe would ever be needed on Mars.

“He wasn’t there to glean anyone, he said. He was merely ‘entertaining his curiosity.’ He wanted to know what it would be like to live on Mars – and he was true to his word. He didn’t glean a single person once he reached the planet. He merely took tours and spoke with colonists. It was all very benign.

“I have something to show you now.

“What you’re about to see is a video record of Xenocrates’s arrival. Hard to recognize him, I know – he was still thin then, and his robe didn’t have all the gold, which he added when he became a High Blade. As you can see, he’s being greeted by the governor of the colony, and a few other dignitaries, and – there! Do you see? That young man in the background. That’s Carson Lusk! While Xenocrates was on Mars, Carson was assigned to be his personal valet. Not a good view of him, I know, but he’ll turn in a moment.

“Remember, this was a few months before the disaster. Time enough for people to forget Xenocrates’s visit. Time for plans to be put into place, and for a team of accomplices to secretly carry those plans out, making sabotage look like just another tragic accident.

“As for Carson Lusk, no matter how hard you look, you won’t find any record of him after his return to Earth, because within a year, his name had been changed. There – there, you see? He’s turning toward the camera now. Is his face familiar yet? No? Just add a few years, shorten his hair, and draw in a satisfied, self-important grin.

“That young valet is none other than His Exalted Excellency, Robert Goddard, Overblade of North Merica.”

38

A Grand Reunion of the Dubiously Deceased

The Toll and his entourage took refuge in the same caves that the Sibilants had laid claim to. Those Sibilants were now beyond repentant, prostrating themselves in his presence and professing their unworthiness to even grovel at his feet. Normally he would not accept such hyperbolic adoration, but, considering what these people had done – all the lives they had ended – groveling was a far milder punishment than they deserved.

Of course the Thunderhead reminded him that punishment was not its way.

“Correction must be about lifting one up from one’s poor choices and prior deeds. As long as remorse is sincere, and one is willing to make recompense, there is no purpose to suffering.”

Still, Greyson didn’t mind seeing them facedown in bat guano.

The repentant Tonists decorated a grotto as lavishly as they could for him with tapestries and pillows, and begged for ways to be of service.

“This place is as good as any to wait,” the Thunderhead told Greyson.

“Good as any?” Greyson said. “I realize you have no sense of smell, but the stink is terrible in here.”

“My chemical sensors are far more accurate than the human sense of smell,” the Thunderhead reminded him. “And the ammonia exuded by bat droppings is well within human tolerance.”

“You said wait. What is it we’re waiting for?” Greyson asked.

“A visitor” was all the Thunderhead said.

“Can you at least tell me who it is?” Greyson asked.

“No, I cannot.”

This is how Greyson knew that he would be visited by a scythe. But, considering the increased hostility toward Tonists, why would the Thunderhead welcome such a visit? Maybe the SubSaharan scythedom had found their hiding place and was seeking justice from the Sibilants. But if so, why wouldn’t the Thunderhead “strongly suggest a journey” as it had back at the Cloisters, when Scythe Morrison was the enemy? No amount of tossing and turning that night could jog loose a hint of who it might be.

“Rest easy,” the Thunderhead told him gently in the darkness. “I am here, and no harm will come to you.”

Scythe Anastasia had her doubts about this so-called holy man. She needed evidence that the Thunderhead spoke to him. Not just testimony, but actual, irrefutable evidence. Even as a young girl, Citra needed to see something to believe it. This “Toll” was most likely a charismatic schemer. A con artist taking advantage of the gullible, telling them what they wanted to hear, being who they wanted him to be for his own selfish ends.

She wanted to believe that. It was less disturbing than the idea of the Thunderhead choosing a Tonist as its liaison to