The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,82

been gleaned.

He had thought that gleaning their so-called prophet would stand as a warning to Tonists the world over, and a reminder that if scythes were not respected, they should be feared. Instead, Tonists went from a persistent nuisance to a growing danger.

“This is nothing we didn’t expect,” Goddard claimed. “Change will always face resistance, but we must forge forward in spite of it.”

Never once did Goddard consider that the escalation in violence against the scythedoms of the world was brought on by his own order to glean the Toll.

“Your greatest flaw,” Underscythe Constantine dared to tell him, “is that you fail to understand the concept of martyrdom.”

He would have banished Constantine on the spot if the man hadn’t been needed to bring the stubborn LoneStar region in line with the rest of North Merica. That region had become a refuge for Tonists now. “It serves Texas right,” Goddard proclaimed. “Let it be overrun by them like rats in a ruin.”

The Overblade’s crystalline chalet had changed over the past few years. Not just the city-aimed weaponry, but the crystal itself was different. Goddard had had the outer glass reinforced and acid treated, so that it could no longer be seen through. The result was that when you were in the chalet, it appeared, day or night, that Fulcrum City was shrouded in perpetual fog.

Goddard was convinced that the Tonists had spy drones. He was convinced that other forces were banding against him as well. He was convinced that unfriendly regions were aiding those forces.

Whether or not any of these things were true didn’t matter. He acted as if they were. Which meant it was Goddard’s truth – and what was true for Goddard became true for the world. Or at least every part of the world where he had smudged his indelible fingerprint.

“Things will settle,” he told the nearly two thousand scythes who had gathered for the First Continental Conclave. “People will get used to the way things are, see that it is for the best, and they’ll settle.”

But until then, the windows would remain fogged, the troublesome would be gleaned, and the silent guns would point resolutely at the city below.

Goddard was still reeling from the botched Amazonian raid. High Blade Pickford had failed to apprehend Scythe Anastasia. It wasn’t the first time that she’d disappointed him, but there was not much he could do about her. At least not now. Goddard did foresee a time when he would appoint the High Blades of other North Merican regions, rather than leaving it to the unpredictable voting process in conclaves.

Pickford’s saving grace was that she did manage to catch Rowan Damisch, who was at this very instant on his way to Fulcrum City. That would have to suffice until the girl was apprehended. Hopefully Anastasia would be so consumed by running and hiding, that she wouldn’t be able to make much trouble. In retrospect, he should have maintained the Perimeter of Reverence in the waters above Endura. He had been worried that a salvage might reveal evidence of what really happened. He never dreamed it might lead to this.

The morning brought other business, and Goddard had to put aside his frustration, which was much harder to do than it used to be.

“High Blade Shirase of RossShelf is on his way up, with a sizeable entourage,” Underscythe Franklin informed him.

“And are they ‘of one mind’?” Rand quipped.

Goddard chuckled slightly, but Franklin never gave Rand the slightest of courtesy laughs. “Their minds are less important than the crates they’re carrying,” she said.

Goddard met them in the conference room, after making them wait five minutes, because Goddard always wanted to make sure his guests – even his important ones – knew that his schedule mattered more than theirs.

“Nobu!” said Goddard, and went over to High Blade Shirase like an old friend. “A pleasure to see you! How are things in Antarctica?”

“Things are well,” he said.

“Is life but a dream?” offered Rand.

“On occasion,” said Shirase, missing the slight on the unique nature of his region. “But only when we have to row our own boats, I suppose.”

Now Underscythe Franklin offered up a courtesy laugh, but it created more tension than it dispersed.

Goddard glanced at the crates, each held by a member of the BladeGuard. There were only eight of them. Other regions came with at least ten crates. But the lower number could simply mean they were more densely packed.

“To what do I owe this visit, Your Excellency?” Goddard asked, as if everyone there