Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,111

try to resist; it will only make it worse for you.”

Now Scythe Possuelo turned to him. “On whose authority do you do this?”

“On the joint authority of Lautaro, High Blade of the Chilargentine Region, and High Blade Xenocrates of MidMerica.”

“Neither of which have any jurisdiction here.”

He chuckled. “Excuse me, but—”

“No, excuse me,” said Possuelo, with just the right level of indignation. “We crossed into Amazonia at least five minutes ago. If you attempt to press your advantage in any way, she has every right to defend herself with lethalish force—even against a scythe.”

Citra took that as a cue to pull out a hunting knife she was concealing in her frock, and she stood to face him. “Make one move with that baton and they’ll have to reattach your hand.”

Behind him a porter came into the train car to see what the commotion was. “Sir,” said Citra, “this man is a Chilargentine scythe, but isn’t wearing his ring or robe. Isn’t that against the law in Amazonia?” Never had Citra been so happy to have studied her scythe history.

The porter looked the man over, and his eyes narrowed to a suspicious glare—suspicious enough for Citra to know where his allegiances lay.

“Furthermore, all foreign scythes must register before crossing our border,” he said. “Even when sneaking in by tunnel.”

The Chilargentine scythe’s temper quickly began to boil. “Leave me to my business or I will glean you where you stand.”

“No, you won’t,” said Scythe Possuelo with such matter-of-fact calm, it made Citra grin. “I’ve granted him immunity. You can’t glean him.”

“What?”

Then the Amazonian scythe reached his hand right up to the porter’s face, who grabbed it and kissed his ring. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

“This man threatened violence against me,” Citra told the porter. “I demand he be put off the train at the next stop, along with any other disguised scythes he’s traveling with.”

“That would be my pleasure,” said the porter.

“You can’t do that!” the scythe insisted.

But a few minutes later, he found out otherwise.

• • •

With her pursuers kicked off the train, Citra enjoyed a respite from the relentless cat-and-mouse game. Her cover blown, she pulled on street clothes that fit her from someone’s luggage. Jeans and a flowery blouse that wasn’t her style, but the clothes were adequate. The Tonists were disappointed, yet didn’t seem all that surprised that she wasn’t actually one of them. They left her with a pamphlet she promised she’d read, but suspected she wouldn’t.

“Whatever your destination,” Scythe Possuelo told her, “you’ll have to change trains at Amazonas Central Station. I suggest you meander through several different outbound trains before boarding the one you’re actually taking, so that the DNA detectors will send those chasing you every which way.”

Of course, the more she wandered the station, the more likely she’d be seen, but it was worth the risk to confound the DNA detectors and send her pursuers on a wild goose chase.

“I don’t know why they’re after you,” Scythe Possuelo said as the train pulled into the station, “but if your issues resolve and you do get your ring, you should come back to Amazonia. The rain forest stretches across the whole continent, as it did in its most ancient days, and we live in its canopy. You would find it marvelous.”

“I thought you didn’t like foreign scythes,” she told him with a smirk.

“There is a difference between those we invite, and those who intrude,” he told her.

Citra did her best to leave DNA traces on half a dozen trains before slipping onto the one bound for Caracas, on the north Amazonia coast. If there were agents out there looking for her, she didn’t spot them, but she wouldn’t be so cavalier as to think she was out of harm’s way.

From the city of Caracas, Scythe Curie had instructed her to follow the northern coastline east until coming to a town called Playa Pintada. She would have to avoid publicars or any other mode of transportation that would pinpoint her location, but she found the closer she got, the more her resolve hardened. She would get there and complete this troubled pilgrimage, even if she had to walk the rest of the way.

• • •

How does one face a murderer? Not a socially sanctioned killer, but an actual murderer. An individual who, without the blessing of society, or even its permission, permanently ends a human life?

Citra knew that in the world at large, the Thunderhead prevented such things. Certainly people get pushed in front of trains, or