The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,79
him, and Morrison was dragged out. Funny, but suddenly the Toll, in his satin pajamas, didn’t seem as ridiculous as he had just moments ago. He seemed just a little bit like a holy man.
“What were you thinking?”
Curate Mendoza paced the Toll’s suite, furious with him. There were guards at every door and window now, too late to make a difference. Foolish boy, thought Mendoza. He was warned not to go anywhere alone, much less at night. He brought this on himself.
“And why did you let him live? Killing that scythe and burning him would have sent a clear message to Goddard!” Mendoza told him.
“Yes,” the Toll agreed. “And that message would be that Tonists are getting too defiant and need to be wiped out.”
“He already wants to wipe us out!”
“Wanting to and actually mobilizing his scythes to do it are two different things,” the Toll insisted. “The longer we keep Goddard from boiling over, the more time it gives us to get ready to fight him off. Don’t you see that?”
Mendoza crossed his arms. It was obvious to him what was going on here.
“You’re a coward!” he said. “You’re just afraid to do something so audacious as kill a scythe!”
The Toll stepped forward and squared his shoulders.
“If you call me a coward again, you’ll be sent back to your monastery, and that will be the end of your service to me.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Guard,” the Toll said, gesturing to the closest one. “Please escort Curate Mendoza to his chambers and lock him in there until the noon bell for his disrespect.”
Without hesitation the guard stepped forward and grabbed the curate, making it clear whose orders he, and all the guards, obeyed.
Mendoza shook the guard off. “I’ll walk myself.”
But before he left, Mendoza paused, took a deep breath, and turned back to the Toll. “Forgive me, Your Sonority,” he said. “I was out of line.”
But even to him it sounded far more sycophantic than sincere.
Once Mendoza was gone, Greyson just about collapsed into a chair. It was the first time he had ever stood up to Mendoza like that. But the Toll could not allow himself to be intimidated. Even by the man who had made him. It should have felt good to put the curate in his place, but it didn’t. Perhaps that was why the Thunderhead had chosen him over all others; while others were corrupted by power, Greyson didn’t even like the taste of it.
Well, maybe he could develop a taste. Perhaps he would need to.
The Cloisters did not have a dungeon. It was only designed to resemble a medieval structure, not actually function as one. Instead, Morrison was relegated to what must have been someone’s office in the days when the place had been a museum.
The Tonist guards were not exactly trained for this sort of thing. They didn’t have shackles of any sort – such artifacts could only be found in museums today, and not this kind of museum. So they secured him with plastic garden ties that were used for training the bougainvilleas to the stone walls. There were way too many guards. One on each appendage would have done the job, but they put half a dozen on each arm and each leg, and pulled them so tight that Morrison’s hands were turning purple and his feet were ice cold. All Morrison could do was wait until his fate was decided.
It must have been around dawn when he heard a conversation just outside the closed door.
“But, Your Sonority,” he heard one of the guards say. “You shouldn’t go in there; he’s dangerous.”
“Do you have him tied up?” he heard the Toll ask.
“Yes.”
“Can he break free?”
“No, we made sure he couldn’t.”
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
The door opened. The Toll stepped in. He closed the door behind him. His bed hair had been combed, and he was now wearing a ritualistic outfit. It looked uncomfortable.
Scythe Morrison didn’t know whether to thank the Toll for saving him or curse him for leaving him like this, bested and humiliated.
“So,” Morrison said sulkily. “The Thunderhead has a plan for me, huh?”
“I was lying,” the Toll said. “You’re a scythe; the Thunderhead can’t have a plan for you. It can’t have anything to do with you.”
“But it told you who I was.”
“Not really. But I eventually figured it out. Scythe Morrison, right? Your Patron Historic wrote those lyrics I recited.”
He didn’t respond, just waited for whatever came next.