The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  27 Tenkamenin’s Pleasure Dome

  The Spence traversed the Atlantic with Scythe Anastasia, sailing a direct course for the region of SubSahara, on the Afric continent. It was a distance much shorter than most people might think, taking just under three days. They arrived in the coastal town of Port Remembrance while the North Merican scythes were still searching for Anastasia in the far reaches of South Merica.

  In mortal days, Port Remembrance had been known as Monrovia, but the Thunderhead decided that the region’s dark history of subjugation and slavery, followed by poorly planned repatriation, warranted an entirely new name that would offend absolutely no one. Naturally, people were offended. But the Thunderhead stuck to its decision—and, as with all decisions the Thunderhead made, it turned out to be the right one.

  Scythe Anastasia was met by SubSahara’s High Blade Tenkamenin himself upon her arrival—as a vocal opponent of Goddard, he had agreed to provide her secret sanctuary.

  “So much ado about a junior scythe!” he said in a booming, genial voice as he greeted her. His robe was colorful and meticulously designed to pay homage to every historical culture in the region. “Not to worry, little one, you’re safe and among friends.”

  While Citra found Possuelo’s meu anjo—my angel—endearing, being called “little one” felt diminutive. She held her head high as Scythe Anastasia and, in the name of diplomacy, did not comment. Instead Jeri did.

  “Not so little,” Jeri said.

  The High Blade threw Jeri a dubious gaze. “And you are?”

  “Jerico Soberanis, captain of the vessel that so successfully brought Scythe Anastasia into your welcoming arms.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Tenkamenin said. “A scavenger of note.”

  “Salvager,” Jeri corrected. “I find what’s lost, and fix things that are beyond repair.”

  “Noted,” said Tenkamenin. “Thank you for your fine service.” Then the High Blade put a fatherly arm around Anastasia, leading her away from the dock with his entourage. “Oh, but you must be tired and hungry for something more than maritime fare. We have all things prepared for your comfort.”

  Jeri, however, kept pace with them until Tenkamenin asked, “Have you not been paid? Surely Possuelo has taken care of that.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Excellency,” Jeri said, “but Scythe Possuelo specifically assigned me to be by Scythe Anastasia’s side at all times. I sincerely hope you’re not asking me to violate that order.”

  The High Blade heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well,” he said, then turned to his entourage as if it was a single entity. “Set an extra place for our fine Madagascan captain at dinner and prepare an adequate room.”

  Finally, Anastasia spoke up. “Adequate will not be adequate,” she told the High Blade. “Jerico risked everything to bring me here, and should be treated with the same courtesy as you treat me.”

  The entourage braced for something volcanic, but after a moment, the High Blade laughed heartily.

  “Spunk,” he said, “is highly valued here. We will get along!” Then he turned to Jeri. “Captain, forgive me, but I love to toy. I mean nothing by it. You are most welcome here as an esteemed guest, and will be treated as such.”

  * * *

  Jeri had received no such order from Possuelo. Jerico was told to bring Anastasia here and the job would be done. Jeri, however, was not ready to part ways with the turquoise scythe—and besides, the crew of the Spence was overdue for some downtime. The western shores of SubSahara would be a welcome leave. And that freed Jeri to keep an eye on Anastasia, and the High Blade, who seemed a little too ingratiating.

  “Do you trust him?” Jeri asked Anastasia before they got into the sedans that would spirit them to Tenkamenin’s palace.

  “Possuelo does,” Anastasia said. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “Possuelo also trusted that junior scythe who sold you out to Goddard,” Jeri pointed out. Anastasia had no response to that. “I will be your second pair of eyes,” Jeri told Anastasia.

  “Probably not necessary, but I appreciate it,” she said.

  Jeri was usually about the bottom line but found that Anastasia’s appreciation was payment enough for services rendered.

  * * *

  Tenkamenin, who went by Tenka to those close to him, had a disarming and effusive nature to go with his deep voice—a voice that resounded even when he whispered. Citra found it endearing as well as intimidating. She resolved to put aside Citra Terranova and be Scythe Anastasia at all times around him.

  She noted that Tenkamenin’s genetic index leaned a bit toward Afric. Understandable, as this was the continent that had contributed those genes to humanity’s biological mélange. Anastasia, herself, had a tinge more Afric in her than PanAsian, Caucasoid, Mesolatino, or any of the subindexes that were corralled under “other.” As they rode together, Tenkamenin read it in her and commented on it.

  “We’re not supposed to notice these things,” he said, “but I do. All it means is that we are a teeny bit more closely related.”

  His residence was more than just a residence. Tenkamenin had built himself a stately pleasure dome.

  “I do not call it Xanadu, as Kublai Khan did,” he told Anastasia. “Besides, Scythe Khan had absolutely no taste. The Mongolian scythedom was right to bulldoze it the moment he self-gleaned.”

  The palace was, like Tenka himself, stylish and the epitome of good taste. “I am no parasite, taking over estates and mansions that belong to others, then kicking them out,” he told her proudly. “This place was built from the ground up! I invited entire communities to work, and filled their idle time with rewarding labor. And still they work, adding more each year. Not because I ask them to, but because it is their pleasure.”

  Although Anastasia initially doubted it was their choice, her conversations with the workers proved her wrong. They truly did love Tenka, and the time they devoted to working on his palace was entirely of their own accord. It didn’t hurt that he paid far above and beyond the Basic Income Guarantee.

  The palace was full of old-world eccentricities that were whimsical and added to the flavor of the place. The anachronistic uniforms of the staff were all from different historical eras. A collection of classic toys going back hundreds of years. And then there were the phones. Boxy plastic things of various colors that sat on tables or hung on walls. They had handsets that were connected to the bases by long, curly cords that stretched like springs and tangled easily.

  “I like the idea of communication tethering you to a single spot,” Tenkamenin told Anastasia. “It forces you to give every conversation the attention it deserves.”

  But since those phones were reserved for Tenkamenin’s private calls, they never rang. Anastasia supposed it was because there was very little private about Tenkamenin. He lived his life like he were in a window display.

  The morning after her arrival, Anastasia was called in for a meeting with Tenkamenin and Scythes Baba and Makeda—permanent fixtures in the High Blade’s entourage, whose apparent purpose in life was to be an audience for him. Baba had a biting wit and enjoyed making jokes that no one but Tenka understood. Makeda seemed to find her greatest joy in belittling Baba.

  “Ah! Our lady of the deep arrives!” said Tenka. “Sit, won’t you—we have much to discuss.”

  Anastasia sat, and they offered her little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, arranged on the tray like a pinwheel. The High Blade was all about presentation.

  “It is my understanding that word is spreading about your revival. While Goddard’s allies are trying to keep it quiet, our old-guard friends are making it known. We’ll build the anticipation, so that when you officially present yourself, the whole world will be listening.”

  “If the world will be listening, I’ll have to have something to say.”

  “You will,” Tenka said with such certainty that it made her wonder what he had in mind. “We have stumbled across some information of the most incriminating kind,”


  “Incrimination in a world without crime or nations,” said Baba. “Imagine that.”

  Tenkamenin laughed, and Scythe Makeda rolled her eyes. Then the High Blade reached across the table and placed a small origami swan on Anastasia’s empty bread plate. “Secrets folded upon secrets,” he said with a grin. “Tell me, Anastasia, how skilled are you at digging through the Thunderhead’s backbrain?”

  “Very,” she told him.

  “Good,” said Tenkamenin. “When you unfold the swan, you’ll find something to get you started.”

  Anastasia turned the swan over in her fingers. “What will I be looking for?”

  “You must blaze that path. I won’t tell you what to look for, because if I do, you’ll miss the things you would intuitively find.”

  “The things we probably missed,” added Makeda. “We need fresh eyes on this.”

  “And besides,” said Scythe Baba, triple-teaming her. “It’s not enough for you to know—you’ve got find it—so you can show others how to find it, too.”

  “Precisely,” said Tenkamenin. “A successful lie is not fueled by the liar; it is fueled by the willingness of the listener to believe. You can’t expose a lie without first shattering the will to believe it. That is why leading people to truth is so much more effective than merely telling them.”

  Tenkamenin’s words hung in the air, and Anastasia looked at the swan again, not wanting to ruin it by unfolding its delicate wings.

  “Once you draw your own conclusions, we’ll share what we know,” said Tenkamenin. “I guarantee you, your excursion into the backbrain will be a most eye-opening experience.”

  28 Dark Celebrity

  Everyone was invited. And when the Overblade sets forth an invitation, it was not to be ignored. Which meant the stadium would most certainly be filled to capacity.

  Goddard had put out a public call to all souls under the umbrella of his influence. It was a rare thing for a scythe—much less a powerful scythe—to have anything to do with ordinary people. Communications with the rest of humankind were usually limited to bullet, blade, bludgeon, and the occasional poison. Scythes simply didn’t feel the need to speak to the masses. They were not elected officials and had no one to answer to besides one another. There was no reason to win over the hearts of the people when your sole purpose in their lives was to stop those hearts from beating.

  So when Overblade Goddard himself personally broadcast the invitation, people everywhere took notice. In spite of his fortified tower, Goddard claimed to be a scythe of the people—and here was the evidence. He was willing to share his triumph with ordinary people in all walks of life. In the end, people’s craving to be close to the continent’s most celebrated scythes was stronger than the fear of them. Tickets were gone within five minutes of being made available. Everyone else would have to view the event in their homes and places of business.

  And for those lucky enough to get tickets to the execution, they knew they’d be witnessing history. They could tell their children, and their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren, and their great-great-grandchildren that they were there the day that Scythe Lucifer was gleaned.

  They didn’t fear Scythe Lucifer the way scythes did, but they did despise him, because not only did they blame him for the death of Endura, but also the silence of the Thunderhead and their own unsavory status. The world was being punished for his actions. He was, as Goddard so bluntly put it, the receptacle of the world’s hatred. So naturally they would show up in force to witness his terrible end.

  * * *

  There were no longer such things as armored vehicles. Most vehicles were impenetrable by nature now. Even so, a special transport truck was built in a matter of days for Scythe Lucifer, complete with visible steel rivets and barred windows. It was a straight line on a high-speed highway from Fulcrum City to Mile High City, where his gleaning would take place—but the route the motorcade took was a serpentine meander that passed through as many MidMerican cities as possible before arriving at its destination. A drive that would have taken a day took nearly a week.

  Rowan knew his gleaning would be exploited for its public relations value, but he had not expected to be flaunted in this way.

  There were more than a dozen vehicles in the motorcade. Members of the BladeGuard on motorcycle, fancy limousines in the colors of the high-ranking scythes that rode within, all leading up to the big, boxy, armored truck, and followed by a few more motorcycle guards, trailing behind like a bridal train.

  The Overblade himself was not present, even though the first limo was royal blue and studded with glimmering stars. There was no one in it—but the masses didn’t know that. The truth was, Goddard couldn’t be bothered to take a long, laborious journey when he could get the same effect by just pretending to be there. He wouldn’t have to show up until the actual day of the gleaning.

  Instead, he put Constantine in charge of escorting the dread Scythe Lucifer to his ultimate doom.

  Constantine, Rowan knew, had been in charge of finding him and taking him down three years ago. His crimson robe and limousine were the same color as the PUBLIC ENEMY stamp on the side of Rowan’s transport truck. He wondered if that was intentional, or just a happy coincidence.

  Before they left Fulcrum City, Constantine had paid Rowan a visit once he had been loaded into his high-security truck and shackled.

  “All these years, I wanted to lay eyes on you,” Constantine said. “And now that I do, I am profoundly unimpressed.”

  “Thanks,” said Rowan. “I love you, too.”

  Constantine reached into his robe as if to grab a blade, but thought better of it. “If I could glean you here and now, I would,” he said. “But the ire of Overblade Goddard is not something I wish to arouse.”

  “Understandable,” said Rowan. “If it’s any consolation, I’d rather be gleaned by you than by him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because for him, my death will be vengeance. For you it would be satisfying a three-year mission. I’d much rather satisfy that than Goddard’s vendetta.”

  Constantine took that in stride. He didn’t become any softer, but he no longer seemed on the verge of an explosion he would regret.

  “Before we drive you to your well-deserved end, I want to know something,” Constantine said. “I want to know why you did what you did.”

  “Why did I ended Scythes Renoir, Fillmore, and the rest?”

  He waved his hand. “Not that. As much as I detest your scythe-ending spree, it’s obvious why you chose the ones you did. They were all questionable scythes, and you passed judgment on them, even though it was not your judgment to pass. Those crimes are more than enough reason to glean you, but what I want to know is why you killed the Grandslayers? They were good men and women. The worst of them was Xenocrates, but even he was a saint compared to the others you ended. What possessed you to do such an unspeakable thing?”

  Rowan was tired of denying the blame—what did it matter at this point? So he gave Constantine the lie that everyone already believed.

  “I hated the scythedom for denying me the ring,” Rowan told him. “And so I wanted to damage it as much as I could. I wanted every scythedom around the world to pay for refusing to make me a true scythe.”

  Constantine’s glare could have melted through the steel of the transport truck. “Do you expect me to believe that you are that small-minded and petty?”

  “I must be,” said Rowan. “Why else would I sink Endura?” Then he added, “Or maybe I’m just plain evil.”

  Constantine knew he was being mocked, and he did not take it well. He left and had nothing more to say to Rowan for the entire journey—but not without the grimmest of parting shots.

  “It is my pleasure to tell you that your gleaning will be a painful one,” the crimson scythe said, oozing bitterness. “Goddard intends to roast you alive.”

  * * *

  Rowan had brand-new shiny shackles that had been forged just for him, steel chains that clan
ged on the floor of the transport truck when he moved. They were long enough to allow him plenty of mobility, but solid enough to make it hard to actually move. It was beyond overkill. Just because he had a knack for slipping free did not make him the escape artist they thought he was. All of his previous escapes were due either to someone helping him or the incompetence of the people detaining him. He wasn’t exactly going to bite through the chains and kick open the steel door—yet everyone acted like he was an otherworldly beast with superhuman, supernatural powers. But then, maybe that’s what Goddard wanted people to think; because if the creature you captured needs to be chained and locked in a steel box, you must be one hell of a hunter.

  In every city and town they passed through, people came out in droves to watch the motorcade go by, as if it were a holiday parade. The barred windows in the transport truck were at various heights, larger than ought to be on an armored vehicle, and the interior was brightly lit. Rowan soon came to realize the reason for this. The windows were placed so that no matter where he positioned himself in the truck, he could still be seen from the outside, and the bright interior ensured that he would not be hidden in darkness, no matter the time of day.

  As he rolled down boulevards and main streets, there was always a view of him for the gauntlets of lookie-loos on either side. Occasionally he looked out of a window, and when he did, the crowd’s excitement peaked at his peeking. They pointed at him, took photos, and held up children to see the young man who had become a dark celebrity. A few times he waved to them, which got people tittering to one another. A few times he pointed back at them when they pointed at him, which always seemed to scare them—as if his angry restless ghost would come for them in the middle of the night once he was gleaned.

  Through all this, Constantine’s bleak pronouncement kept coming back to him. The manner in which Rowan would be gleaned. Hadn’t gleaning by fire been outlawed? Goddard must have reinstated it. Or maybe he brought it back just for this one special gleaning. As much as Rowan tried to tell himself he didn’t fear it, he did. Not the gleaning, but the pain—and there would be quite a lot of it, because Goddard would most certainly turn off his pain nanites so that Rowan could feel every last measure of misery. He would suffer like the heretics and witches of more ignorant times.