The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,159

Something uneasy. A clear sign that they were up to no good.

There was a thin young man who appeared to be in charge, and one of the women seemed familiar somehow, but it must have been his imagination. The harbormaster stepped in and cleared his throat, making his presence known.

The thin one quickly stood. “Can I help you?”

“Routine check,” said the harbormaster, showing them his credentials. “There are some irregularities with your paperwork.”

“What sort of irregularities?”

“Well, for one,” said the harbormaster, “you’re missing a destination.”

They looked to one another. The harbormaster couldn’t help but notice that one of the women – the one who had something familiar about her – was averting her gaze, and one of the others had stepped in front of her, blocking the harbormaster’s view.

“Port of Angels, WestMerica,” said the thin one.

“Then why is it missing from your paperwork?”

“Not a problem. We’ll just add it manually.”

“And the nature of your cargo is unclear.”

“It’s of a personal nature,” he said. “As harbormaster, isn’t it your job to send us on our way, and not to pry into our business?”

The harbormaster stiffened. There was something increasingly unsettling about this. It reeked of an unsavory hack into the database. The harbormaster dropped all pretenses.

“Either you tell me what you’re really up to, or I’ll hand you over to the peace officers waiting just outside that door.”

The thin one was about to speak again, but one of the others stood up. A bigger man, a bit more intimidating. “This is scythe business,” he said, and flashed his ring.

The harbormaster drew a quick breath. He had never considered that this might be a scythe operation … but if so, then why was the scythe not in his robe? And why were they using a Thunderhead transport ship? There was something very fishy here.

The big one must have read the doubt in his face, because he advanced on the harbormaster with the clear intent to glean – but before he could, the familiar woman stopped him.

“No!” she said. “No one’s dying today. There’s enough of that already.” The large one looked annoyed, but retreated. And that’s when the young woman took her own ring out of a pocket and slipped it on her finger.

It only took a moment to recognize her in context. This was Scythe Anastasia. Of course! It made sense now. Considering the nature of her broadcasts, he could understand why she would travel incognito.

“Forgive me, Your Honor, I had no idea it was you.”

“Your Honors,” corrected the other scythe, miffed at being ignored.

Scythe Anastasia extended her hand. “Kiss my ring,” she said. “I’ll give you immunity in exchange for your silence.”

He did not hesitate. He knelt and kissed her ring so hard it hurt his lips.

“Now you will let us go without any further questions,” she said.

“Yes, Your Honor. I mean Your Honors.”

The harbormaster went back to his office, which had a view of the entire port, and watched as their ship sailed out of the bay. He marveled at the unexpected moment – he had actually spoken to Scythe Anastasia – even more than that, he had kissed her ring! It was really a shame that all she had to offer was immunity, which was, of course, wonderful, but fell short of what he truly wanted. So once the ship was out of port, he triggered the tracking beacon he had attached to the hull and put in a call to the North Merican scythedom. Because while immunity was nice, even better would be Overblade Goddard making him harbormaster at one of the big North Merican ports. Not too much to ask in return for putting Scythe Anastasia right into the Overblade’s hands.

The container ship sailed east, leaving Guam and the duplicitous harbormaster on the distant horizon. East toward nowhere, according to the maps.

“If we stay on this course, our next landfall will be Valparaiso in the Chilargentine region, halfway around the world,” Jeri pointed out. “That makes no sense.”

The Thunderhead had been silent for most of the day after relinquishing Jeri’s body. Greyson didn’t initiate any conversation, either. He simply didn’t know where to begin. What do you say to a man-made meta-being who found the greatest joy of its existence to be the feel of your cheek? And what would you say the next morning, when you rolled over to look into its ever wakeful eye?

Jeri, who remembered it all now, was still grappling with being a temporary vessel for the Thunderhead’s consciousness. “I’ve experienced many