The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,68

she went. She explored with the pretext of curiosity, but really she was just looking for Rowan. One of her escorts was an annoying junior scythe by the name of Peixoto, who was so starstruck by her, she feared he might just burst into flames if he as much as touched her robe. As she moved through a dank space that must have been an ancient communal hall, she had to say something, because he just stood there by the stone steps, gawking at every move she made.

“You can put your eyes back in your head now,” she told him.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor – it’s just still hard to believe that I’m laying eyes on the actual Scythe Anastasia,” Peixoto said.

“Well, laying eyes on me doesn’t necessarily mean popping them out of their sockets first.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor, it won’t happen again.”

“It’s still happening.”

“I’m sorry.”

Now Peixoto cast his eyes down as if looking at her was like gazing at the sun. It was almost as bad as the staring. Was this the kind of ridiculous treatment she’d have to deal with? It was bad enough when she was just a scythe. Now she was also a living legend, which apparently came with a brand-new bag of nauseating veneration.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” Peixoto said as they spiraled up a narrow stairwell that led, like so many others, nowhere, “what was it like?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“To be there for the sinking of Endura,” he said. “To watch it go down.”

“Sorry, but I was too busy trying to survive to take pictures,” she said, more than a little annoyed by the question.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I was only an apprentice when it happened. Since then Endura has fascinated me. I have spoken with several survivors – ones who made it out by boat or plane in those last minutes. They say it was spectacular.”

“Endura was a very impressive place,” Anastasia had to admit.

“No – I meant the sinking. I hear the sinking was spectacular.”

Anastasia didn’t even know what to say to that, so she answered with silence. And when she next saw Possuelo, she asked if Peixoto could be assigned elsewhere.

After a week at the old fortress, things took a sudden and unexpected turn. In the middle of the night, Possuelo came into Anastasia’s chambers with several BladeGuards to wake her out of yet another dreamless sleep.

“Dress quickly – we must leave in extreme haste,” he said.

“I’ll be hasty in the morning,” she told him, annoyed at having been woken, and too bleary to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

“We’ve been compromised!” Possuelo told her. “A delegation of scythes has arrived from North Merica, and I assure you, they are not here to welcome you back to the world.”

It was more than enough to get her out of bed. “Who would have told—” But even before she formed the question, she knew the answer. “Scythe Peixoto!”

“You were far more intuitive than I when it came to that desgraçado. I should have seen his intentions.”

“You’re a trusting man.”

“I am a fool.”

After she slipped on her robe, she noticed someone in the room she hadn’t seen upon waking. At first she thought the individual was a man, but as the figure stepped into the light, Anastasia realized that the visitor was a woman. Or not. Each moment, each shift of the light, changed the impression.

“Anastasia, this is Jerico Soberanis – the captain of the salvage ship that found you. Jerico will get you to safety.”

“What about Rowan?” Citra asked.

“I’ll do what I can for him, but now you must go!”

Rowan was awakened by the sound of his lock turning. It was still dark outside. This was not part of his routine. The moon shone through the slit in the stone, casting a strip of light low against a far wall. When he had gone to sleep, the moon had not yet risen, and by the angle of the light it cast, he suspected it must be just before dawn. He feigned sleep as figures quietly filed into the room. The hallway they had entered from was dark, and they had only narrow beams of flashlights to guide them. Rowan had the advantage of eyes that were already adjusted to the dark. They, however, had the advantage of numbers. He remained still, keeping his eyes open to the narrowest slit – just enough to see the figures through his eyelashes.

It was a cast of unknown characters – but not entirely unknown. The