The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  “Good. That will make this easier.” Then the Toll sat down in a chair across from him. “The Thunderhead didn’t choose me because I was a Tonist. I’m not—not really. It chose me because… well, because someone had to be chosen. The Tonists were the first to believe it, though. My appearance fit with their doctrine. So now I’m the Toll—the Tone made flesh. The funny thing is, I once wanted to be a Nimbus agent. Now I’m the Nimbus agent.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  The Toll shrugged. “Because I feel like it. Haven’t you heard? The Toll can do whatever the Toll feels like. Almost like a scythe.”

  Silence fell between them. It felt awkward to Morrison, but it didn’t seem to feel that way to the Toll. He just stared at Morrison, pondering, cogitating, thinking whatever deep thoughts a holy man who wasn’t actually holy thought.

  “We’re not going to tell Goddard that you failed in your mission.”

  That was something Morrison wasn’t expecting to hear. “You’re not?”

  “See, the thing is, no one, not even the scythedom, knows who the Toll actually is. You gleaned four people last night. Who’s to say that one of them wasn’t the Toll? And if I suddenly vanish from public view, without explanation, it’s going to look like you succeeded.”

  Morrison shook his head. “Goddard’s going to find out eventually.”

  “Eventually is the keyword. He won’t find out until we’re ready for him to. That could be years, if we want it to be.”

  “He’ll know something’s wrong when I don’t come back.”

  “No, he’ll just think you were captured and burned. And the sad thing is, he won’t even care.”

  Morrison could not deny that the Toll was right. Goddard wouldn’t care. Not in the least.

  “Like I said, the Thunderhead doesn’t have a plan for you,” the Toll told Morrison, “but I do.”

  * * *

  Greyson knew he had to sell this and sell it well. And he had to read this scythe like he’d never read anyone before. Because if he miscalculated, it would be disastrous.

  “I’ve been reading up on mortal-age customs when it comes to leaders during dangerous times,” Greyson said. “In some cultures, rulers and spiritual leaders were protected by trained assassins. I’d feel much safer with one of those than these Tonists who think they’re guards.”

  The scythe shook his head, incredulous at the suggestion. “You put out my eye, and now you want me to work for you?”

  Greyson shrugged. “Your eye grew back, and you need a job,” he said. “Or would you rather go back to Goddard and tell him that you failed? That a weakling in pajamas stabbed you in the eye and escaped? I don’t think that will sit very well with him.”

  “How do you know I won’t glean you the second you set me free?”

  “Because I don’t think you’re that stupid. Being the Toll’s personal scythe is much better than anything Goddard would ever offer you, and you know it.”

  “I would be the laughingstock of the scythedom.”

  Greyson offered him the faintest of grins. “Aren’t you already, Scythe Morrison?”

  * * *

  Morrison had no way of knowing how much the Toll knew about him. But it was true—Morrison wasn’t respected, and nothing he had done changed that. But if he stayed here, the other scythes wouldn’t even know he was still alive… and he would be respected. Maybe it was only by Tonists, but it was still respect, and that was something he desperately wanted.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said the Toll. “Why don’t I take the first leap of faith.” Then he pulled out a pair of scissors and, amazingly, began cutting Morrison’s bonds. He started down at his feet, then moved up to his arms, slowly, meticulously snipping each one.

  “The curates won’t be happy,” the Toll said as he snipped. “Screw the curates.”

  Then, when the last bond was cut, Morrison leaped up and clamped a hand around the Toll’s throat.

  “You just made the biggest mistake of your life!” Morrison growled.

  “Go ahead, glean me,” the Toll said, not an ounce of fear in his voice. “You’ll never escape. Even with their bumbling, you can’t get past so many guards. It’s not like you’re Scythe Lucifer.”

  That just made him squeeze a little bit tighter—tight enough to shut him up. The Toll was right—right about so many things. If Morrison completed his mission, he’d be killed and burned by the Tonists outside that door. They’d both be dead, and the only winner would be Goddard.

  “Are you done?” the Toll rasped.

  And somehow, having him in this position, knowing that he could glean the Toll if he wanted to—was just as satisfying as actually gleaning him. But without the unpleasant consequence of having to die as well. Morrison released his grip, and the Toll sucked in a deep breath.

  “So what do I do now? Take a pledge of loyalty?” said Morrison, only half joking.

  “A simple handshake will do,” the Toll said. Then he put out his hand. “My real name is Greyson. But you’ll have to call me Your Sonority.”

  Morrison gripped the Toll’s hand with the same one that had been at the Toll’s throat a moment ago. “My real name’s Joel. But you’ll have to call me Jim.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Jim.”

  “Same here, Your Sonority.”

  Scythe Morrison had to admit this was the last way he had expected this day to go, but all things considered, he couldn’t complain.

  And he didn’t. For more than two years.

  Part Three YEAR OF THE COBRA

  There is, I believe, a destiny for us. A glorious culmination of all it means to be human and immortal. Destiny, however, does not come without exhaustive effort and clear-minded leadership.

  The Year of the Raptor was devastating to us all, but by the Year of the Ibex we had begun to heal. The Year of the Quokka saw us further aligning our ideals and priorities as scythes. Now, on the first day of this new year, I see only hope for the days ahead.

  Here, at this First Continental Conclave, I wish to publicly thank High Blades Pickford of WestMerica, Hammerstein of EastMerica, Tizoc of Mexiteca, and MacPhail of NorthernReach for their faith in me. That they—and you, the scythes under them—have chosen me to shepherd North Merica as your continental Overblade is beyond validation; it is a clear mandate to push forward with our new-order objective. Together we will create a world that is not only perfect, but also pristine. A world where the broad and powerful swath of each scythe brings us ever closer to that singular goal.

  I know that there are still those among you who, like the recalcitrant LoneStar region, are not sure that mine is the right path. The uneasy among you look for “method in the madness,” as they say. But I ask you, is it madness to want to lift the human species to new heights? Is it wrong to have a vision of a future as crystal clear and finely cut as the diamonds on our hands? Of course not.

  I wish to make it clear that your High Blades will not be abdicating their positions. They will still be stewards of your respective regions, responsible for local administration—however, they will now be free from the burden of more cumbersome policy decisions. Those larger issues are left to me. And I promise that I will live for no other purpose but to lead you tirelessly into the future.

  —From the ascension address of His Excellency, Overblade Robert Goddard, January 1st, Year of the Cobra

  24 Rats in a Ruin

  Fort Saint-Jean and Fort Saint-Nicolas were built on either side of the entrance to the port of Marseille, in what was now the FrancoIberian region of Europe. What was odd about these forts, built by King Louis XIV, was not the fact that they had large cannons, but that those cannons were not aimed toward the sea to protect the fort from invaders. Instead, they were pointed inland, toward the bustling city of Marseille, to protect the king’s interests from a public uprising.

  Robert Goddard, Overblade of North Merica, had taken a page from King Louis’s book and mounted heavy artillery in the sixty-eighth-flo
or garden around his crystal chalet, aiming down at the streets of Fulcrum City below. They were installed long before his ascension to Overblade—shortly after he announced that the Toll had 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 didn’t already know.

  “On behalf of the RossShelf region, I would like to present you with a gift. It is our hope that it will help formalize our relationship with you.”

  Then he nodded to the BladeGuards, who placed the crates on the conference table and opened them. As expected, the crates were full of scythe diamonds.

  “These represent RossShelf’s share of the diamonds raised from the ruins of Endura,” Shirase said.

  “Impressive,” said Goddard. “Are these all of them?”

  “All of them, yes.”

  Goddard looked over the sparkling contents, then turned to Shirase. “I accept your gift with humility, and honor, in the spirit of friendship with which they were given. And whenever you need gems for the bejeweling of future scythes, they will be available to you.” Then he gestured to the door. “Please follow Underscythe Franklin—she will escort you to my dining room, where I’ve prepared a brunch for us,” Goddard said. “Traditional Antarctic fare, as well as regional specialties of MidMerica. A feast to consummate our friendship. I’ll be along momentarily, and we’ll discuss issues of concern to both our regions.”

  Franklin escorted them out just as Nietzsche entered.

  “Give me good news, Freddy,” Goddard said.

  “Well, we’ve been tracking Anastasia south,” he said. “There’s only so far south she can go before being cornered in Tierra del Fuego.”

  Goddard sighed. “The Land of Fire will not cooperate. Let’s up our efforts to catch her before she gets there.”

  “We’re doing all we can,” Nietzsche said.

  “Do more,” Goddard told him.

  He turned to see Scythe Rand running her hand through the diamonds in one of the crates. “Are we going to count them, or do you trust Shirase?”

  “It’s not the number that matters, Ayn, but the gesture. The trove we are creating is simply a means to an end. A symbol of something far more valuable than diamonds.”

  Even so, Goddard knew he would hurl them all into the sea in exchange for having Scythe Anastasia in his hands.

  25 Sunlight and Shadow

  Though helping Anastasia escape Amazonia was fraught with strife, that strife had receded to the horizon behind the Spence—which was now, Jerico mused, no longer a salvage ship, but a rescue vessel.

  The seas were easy as Amazonia faded behind them, and the sun rose before them. By nine o’clock all signs of land were gone, and the bright morning sky was dotted with occasional puffs of meandering clouds. Jeri would have much preferred a low cloud cover today—or even better, a soup-thick fog—for if those North Merican scythes figured out that Anastasia was traveling by sea, the Spence could be targeted and sunk.

  “Rest assured they won’t come after you,” Possuelo had told Jeri. “I made sure they intercepted a ‘secret’ communiqué I sent, and they took the bait. As far as the North Mericans know, Anastasia is weaving a circuitous route south by train all the way to the Land of Fire, where the region’s High Blade is supposed to have offered her sanctuary. And to make the story stick, we’re leaving glaring traces of her DNA for them to find along the way. It will be days before they realize it’s a wild-goose chase!”

  It was clever enough. Northern scythes saw Amazonians as too simple to concoct such a ploy, and the Land of Fire, Jeri knew, would be suitably
uncooperative with the North Mericans. The scythes down there were obstreperous to an extreme.

  At full speed, they would reach safe harbor in just under three days.

  From the bridge, Jeri could see the turquoise figure of Scythe Anastasia at the starboard rail, looking out over the sea. She was not supposed to be alone—Possuelo had made that clear—and perhaps his paranoia was justified, considering that he had been betrayed by one of his own. Jeri trusted the crew of the Spence implicitly; they had grown fiercely loyal to their captain. Even so, it was always wise to take precautions.

  The only reason Anastasia would be alone would be if she ordered the officer assigned to her out of her presence. The command of a scythe overruled the orders of a captain. Sure enough, Jeri saw the officer one deck up, keeping a tight eye on her from a distance. It seemed that the only way to effectively guard the willful scythe was to do it personally.

  “She’s going to be a handful,” Chief Wharton said.

  “To be sure,” said Jeri. “But a handful of what, we don’t know.”

  “Misery?” suggested the chief.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” Then Jeri left the bridge to join her at the rail.

  She wasn’t looking down at the water. She wasn’t looking at the horizon, either. It was as if she was gazing at something that wasn’t there.

  “Are you contemplating a leap?” Jeri asked, breaking what felt like a considerable layer of ice. “Should I be worried?”

  Anastasia glanced at Jeri, then returned her gaze to the sea. “I got tired of pacing down below,” she said. “I thought being on deck might calm me down. Have you heard from Possuelo?”

  “I have.”

  “What does he say about Rowan?”

  Jeri took a moment before responding. “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  “Then he’s been captured,” Anastasia said, and pounded the rail in frustration. “I’m sailing to freedom, and he’s been captured.”