The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,93

order was by association. Images weren’t organized by date, time, or even location. To find an ivory scythe standing on a corner, she had to sort through images of people in ivory standing on corners everywhere in the world, then narrow it down by other elements of the scene. A particular type of streetlamp. The length of shadows. The sounds and scents in the air, because the Thunderhead catalogued all sensory input. Finding anything was like finding a needle in a haystack on a planet of haystacks.

It took ingenuity and inspiration to figure out what parameters would narrow down the near infinite field of information. Now Anastasia’s challenge was even greater than before, because then she knew what she was looking for. Now she knew nothing but the dates.

First she studied all that was known about the disasters in question. Then she plunged into the backbrain to find original sources and information that had been conveniently left out of the official records.

The biggest obstacle was her own lack of patience. She could already sense that the answers were in there, but they were buried beneath so many layers she feared she’d never find them.

As it turns out, Anastasia and Jeri had arrived just a few days before the Lunar Jubilee. On every full moon, High Blade Tenkamenin threw a huge party that lasted twenty-five hours, “because twenty-four simply isn’t enough.” There were all forms of entertainment, hordes of professional partiers, and food flown in from around the globe for his invited guests.

“Dress for the event, but without your scythe’s robe, and stay by my side with a party person or two,” Tenka had advised her. “You’ll just be part of the scenery.”

To Jeri, the High Blade just said, “Enjoy yourself within reason.”

Anastasia was reluctant to even be there, for fear of being recognized, and would much rather have continued her search through the backbrain, but Tenkamenin insisted. “A break from the drudgery of dredging will do you good. I’ll provide you with a colorful wig, and no one will be the wiser.”

At first Anastasia thought it was irresponsible and foolhardy to suggest a simple disguise could conceal her, but since the last thing anyone was expecting was a long-dead scythe to show up at the party – much less one wearing a neon-blue wig – she was remarkably hidden in plain sight.

“A lesson for your research,” he told her. “That which hides in plain sight is the most difficult thing to find.”

Tenka was the consummate host, greeting everyone personally and granting immunity left and right. It was all stunning and fun, but it didn’t sit well with Anastasia – and the High Blade read her disapproval.

“Do I seem wastefully self-indulgent to you?” Tenka asked her. “Am I a horribly hedonistic High Blade?”

“Goddard throws parties like this,” she pointed out.

“Not like this,” said Tenka.

“And he likes his homes larger than life, too.”

“Is that so?”

Then Tenka beckoned her closer so she could hear him more clearly amid the revelry. “I want you to take a look at the people before you and tell me what you see. Or – more to the point – what you don’t see.”

Anastasia took in the view. People in a multilevel pool, others dancing on balconies. Everyone in bathing suits and bright party clothes. Then she realized…

“There are no scythes.”

“Not a one! Not even Makeda and Baba. Every guest is a family member of someone I gleaned since the last full moon. I invite them here to celebrate the lives of their lost loved ones, rather than to mourn, and to grant them their year of immunity. And when the celebration is over, and the grounds are cleared, I retreat to my glorious suite.” He indicated the largest window in the mansion … then winked and slid his finger to the right, until he wasn’t pointing at the palace anymore, but to a small shack at the edge of the property.

“The tool shed?”

“That’s not a tool shed,” he said. “It’s where I live. The palace suites are all reserved for honored guests like yourself, as well as guests who are less honored, but need to be impressed. As for my ‘tool shed,’ as you call it, it’s a replica of the home I grew up in. My parents believe in simplicity. And of course they had a son who enjoyed endless complication. Yet I still find comfort at night in the pleasantness of a plain dwelling.”

“I’m sure they must be proud of you,” Anastasia said. “Your parents,