The Toll Read online

  Greyson thought the precautions ridiculous. If there were any plots out there, the Thunderhead would thwart them, or at the very least warn him—unless, of course, it wanted them to succeed, as it had the first time he was kidnapped. Still, after that first kidnapping, Mendoza was paranoid about it, so Greyson entertained his fears.

  The boat rounded the glorious southern tip of Lenape City and bounced its way up the Mahicantuck River—although many still called it the Hudson—toward his residence. Greyson sat below in the small cabin, along with a nervous Tonist girl whose job it was to see to whatever he might need during the journey. Each day there was someone new. It was considered a high honor to ride with the Toll to his residence—a reward bestowed upon the most devout, most righteous of Tonists. Usually Greyson would try to break the ice with conversation, but it always ended up being stilted and awkward.

  He suspected that Mendoza was making a pathetic attempt at providing intimate companionship for the evening—because all the young Tonists who made the journey were attractive and roughly Greyson’s age. If that was Mendoza’s aim, it failed, because Greyson never made a single advance, even when he might have felt inclined. It would have been the sort of hypocrisy he could not abide. How could Greyson be their spiritual leader if he took advantage of the position?

  All sorts of people were throwing themselves at him now, to the point that it was embarrassing—and although he shied away from the ones Mendoza put in his path, he did accept occasional companionship when he felt it wasn’t an abuse of his power. His greatest attraction, however, was for women who were too unsavory for their own good. It was a taste he had developed after his brief time with Purity Viveros, a murderous girl who he had come to love. Things had not ended well. She was gleaned right before his eyes by Scythe Constantine. Greyson supposed seeking out others like her was his way of mourning for her—but no one he found was anywhere near nasty enough.

  “Historically, religious figures tend to be either oversexed or celibate,” said Sister Astrid, a devout Tonist of the non-fanatical variety, who managed his daily schedule. “If you can find your happy place in between, that’s the best any holy man could ask for.”

  Astrid was perhaps the only one among those who attended him who he considered a friend. Or at least could talk to like one. She was older—in her thirties—not old enough to be his mother, but perhaps an older sister or cousin, and she was never afraid to speak her mind.

  “I believe in the Tone,” she once told him, “but I don’t buy that what-comes-can’t-be-avoided garbage. Anything can be avoided if you try hard enough.”

  She had first come to him for an audience on what had to be the coldest day of the year—which was even colder under the arch. She was so miserable, she forgot what she was there to ask and spent the whole time cursing the weather, and the Thunderhead for not doing more about it. Then she had pointed at the embroidered scapular that the Toll wore over his tunic.

  “Have you ever run that wave pattern through a sequencer to see what it spits out?” she asked.

  Turned out his scapular was seven seconds of a mortal-age piece of music called “Bridge over Troubled Water,” which made perfect sense, considering where the Toll had his audiences. He immediately invited Astrid to be part of his inner circle—a reality check against all the crap he had to face on a daily basis.

  There were many days Greyson wished he was still laying low, unseen and unknown in his dark little room of the Wichita monastery, a nonentity who had even had his name taken from him. But there was no turning back from this path now.

  * * *

  The Thunderhead could read all of Greyson’s physiology. It knew when his heart rate was elevated; it knew when he was feeling stress or anxiety or joy; and when he slept, it knew when he was dreaming. It could not access his dreams, though. Even though everyone’s waking memories were uploaded to the backbrain on a minute by minute basis, dreams were not included.

  It was discovered early on that when someone needed their brain restored—either a splatter or someone who had suffered brain injury in some other way—dreams became a problem. For when their memories were returned to them, they had trouble differentiating what was real from what was the product of dreams. So now when one’s mind was handed back to them in revival centers, they had every memory, except for the memories of dreams. No one complained, for how could you miss something that you no longer remembered you had?

  And so the Thunderhead had no idea what adventures and dramas Greyson experienced in his sleep, unless he chose to confide them once he awoke. But Greyson was not one to talk much about his dreams, and it would have been too forward of the Thunderhead to ask.

  It did enjoy watching Greyson sleep, though, and imagining what strange things he might be experiencing in that deep place that lacked logic and coherence, where humans struggled to find glorious shapes in internal clouds. Even while the Thunderhead was taking care of a million different tasks around the world, it still isolated enough of its consciousness to watch Greyson sleep. To feel the vibrations of his stirring, to hear his gentle breathing and sense how each breath ever so slightly increased the humidity in the room. It gave the Thunderhead peace. It gave it comfort.

  It was glad Greyson never ordered the Thunderhead to turn off its cameras in his private suite. He had every right to request privacy—and if asked, the Thunderhead would have to oblige. Of course Greyson knew he was being watched. It was common knowledge that the Thunderhead was, at all times, conscious of everything its sensors were experiencing—including its cameras. But that it devoted such a large portion of its attention to the sensory devices in Greyson’s quarters was a fact it did not flaunt. For if the Thunderhead brought it to Greyson’s attention, he might tell it to stop.

  Over the years, the Thunderhead had witnessed millions of people in each other’s arms, embracing as they slept. The Thunderhead had no arms to embrace. Even so, it could feel the beat of Greyson’s heart and the precise temperature of his body as if it were right beside him. To lose that would be a cause of immeasurable sorrow. And so night after night, the Thunderhead silently monitored Greyson in every way it could. Because monitoring was the closest it could come to embracing.

  As High Blade of MidMerica, and Overblade of the North Merican continent, I would personally like to thank the Amazonian scythedom for retrieving the lost scythe gems and dividing them among the regions of the world.

  While the four other North Merican regions under my jurisdiction have expressed an interest in receiving their share of the diamonds, MidMerica declines. Instead, I would ask that the MidMerican diamonds be shared by those regions who feel unfairly slighted by Amazonia’s unilateral decision to completely ignore regional size when apportioning shares of the diamonds.

  May the MidMerican diamonds be my gift to the world, with the hope that they will be graciously received in the spirit of generosity with which they were given.

  —His Excellency Robert Goddard, Overblade of North Merica, August 5th, Year of the Cobra

  14 The Fortress of the Three Wise Men

  On his third day of revival, Rowan was visited by a scythe who instructed the guard who came with him to wait in the corridor and to lock the scythe in the room with Rowan, lest he try to escape—which really wasn’t a possibility; he was still feeling far too weak to attempt it.

  The man’s robe was forest green. Now Rowan knew he must be in Amazonia, because all the scythes there wore the same green robe.

  Rowan didn’t rise from his bed. He stayed on his back, hands behind his head, trying to look unconcerned. “I want you to know that I never ended an Amazonian scythe,” Rowan told him before the man had a chance to speak. “I hope that weighs in my favor.”

  “Actually, you ended quite a few,” he said. “On Endura. When you sank it.”

  Rowan knew he should have been horrified, but he found the suggestion so absurd, he actually laughed.

  “Seriously? Is that what they’re saying? Wow! I must be smarter
than I thought. I mean, to do something like that single-handed. I must be magical, too, because it would mean I’d have to be in more than one place at the same time. Hey! Maybe you actually didn’t find me at the bottom of the sea! Maybe I used my mystical mind control to make you think you found me.”

  The scythe glowered. “Your insolence doesn’t help your case.”

  “I didn’t realize I had a case,” said Rowan. “Sounds like I’ve already been tried and convicted. Isn’t that what they called it in the mortal age? Convicted?”

  “Are you quite done?” asked the scythe.

  “Sorry,” said Rowan. “It’s just that I haven’t had anyone to talk to in, like, forever!”

  The man finally introduced himself as Scythe Possuelo. “I’ll admit I’m not sure what we should do with you. My High Blade thinks we should leave you here indefinitely and tell no one. Others think we should announce your capture to the world, and let each regional scythedom punish you in its own way.”

  “What do you think?”

  The scythe took his time answering. “After speaking with Scythe Anastasia this morning, I think it’s best not to make hasty decisions.”

  So they did have her! The mention of Citra made him long to see her all the more. Rowan finally sat up. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Scythe Anastasia is not your concern.”

  “She’s my only concern.”

  Possuelo considered that, then said, “She is in a revival center, not far from here, regaining her strength.”

  Rowan took a moment to let the relief wash over him. If nothing else good came of this, at least there was that.

  “And where is ‘here’?”

  “Fortaleza dos Reis Magos,” Possuelo said. “Fortress of the Three Wise Men, at the easternmost reach of Amazonia. It’s where we house individuals who we’re not sure what to do with.”

  “Really? So who are my neighbors?”

  “You have none. It’s only you,” said Possuelo. “It’s been a very long time since we’ve had someone with whom we did not know what to do.”

  Rowan smiled. “A whole fortress to myself! Too bad I can’t enjoy the rest of it.”

  Possuelo ignored him. “I wish to discuss Scythe Anastasia. I find it hard to believe that she was an accomplice in your crime. If you truly do care for her, perhaps you could shed some light as to why she was with you.”

  Rowan could, of course, tell him the truth, but he was sure that Citra already had. Maybe Possuelo wanted to see if their stories matched. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the world had their villain. Someone to blame, even if that blame was misplaced.

  “Here’s your story,” Rowan said. “After I somehow rigged the island to sink, I was chased by a mob of angry scythes through the flooding streets, so I grabbed Scythe Anastasia as a human shield. I held her hostage, and they chased us into the vault.”

  “And you expect people to believe that?”

  “If they believe I sank Endura, they’ll believe anything.”

  Possuelo huffed. Rowan wasn’t sure if it was out of frustration, or if he was squelching a laugh.

  “Our story,” Possuelo said, “is that Scythe Anastasia was found in the vault alone. As far as anyone knows, Scythe Lucifer disappeared after the sinking of Endura, and either died there or is still at large.”

  “Well,” said Rowan, “if I’m still at large, you should let me go. Then I really would be at large, and you won’t be lying about it.”

  “Or maybe we should put you back in the vault and return you to the bottom of the sea.”

  To that, Rowan shrugged and said, “Works for me.”

  * * *

  Three years. In the grand scheme of things, three years was barely a microsecond. Even by the standard measures of post-mortal experience, it wasn’t very long, for the post-mortal world remained the same year after year.

  Except when it didn’t.

  More had changed in these three years than in the past hundred. It was a time of unprecedented turmoil. So as far as Anastasia was concerned, it might as well have been a century.

  They told her nothing else, though. Not Possuelo, nor the nurses who attended her.

  “You have all the time in the world now, Your Honor,” the nurses would say when she tried to press them for information. “Rest now. Trouble yourself later.”

  Trouble herself. Was the world so troubled now that a small dose of it might render her deadish again?

  All she knew for sure was that it was the Year of the Cobra. Which meant nothing without context to judge it—but Possuelo clearly regretted telling her what he already had, feeling that it slowed her recovery.

  “Your revivals were not easy ones,” he told her. “It took five full days until your hearts could even be started. I don’t want to expose you to undue stress until you’re ready.”

  “And when will that be?”

  He thought about it and said, “When you’re strong enough to knock me off balance.”

  So she tried. There on her bed, she thrust the heel of her hand forward and into his shoulder. But it didn’t yield. In fact, it felt like stone—and her hand bruised as if her flesh was nothing more than tissue paper.

  It burned her that he was right. She wasn’t ready for much of anything yet.

  And then there was Rowan. She had died in his arms but at some point had been ripped from them.

  “When can I see him?” she asked Possuelo

  “You can’t,” he told her flatly. “Not today, not ever. Whatever path his life will now take, it will be in the opposite direction from yours.”

  “That,” said Anastasia, “is nothing new.”

  But the fact that Possuelo saw fit to revive him, rather than allowing him to remain dead, said something—although she wasn’t sure what it said. Perhaps they simply wanted him to face his crimes—both the real ones and the imagined.

  Possuelo would come three times a day to play truco with her, an Amazonian card game that dated back to mortal times. She lost every time—and not just because he was more skilled at it. Anastasia still had trouble holding things in her mind. Simple strategies were beyond her. She was no longer as sharp as she had been; now her mind was as dull as a ceremonial blade. She found it incredibly frustrating, but Possuelo was encouraged.

  “You get better each time we play,” he told her. “Your neural pathways are being repaired. In time I’m sure you’ll provide me with some competition.” Which just made her throw her cards at him.

  So the card game was a test. A measure of her mental acuity. Somehow, she wished it was just a game.

  The next time she lost, she stood up and pushed him, but once more, he didn’t lose his balance.

  * * *

  Honorable Scythe Sydney Possuelo had gone to Endura’s final resting place for the diamonds but left with something far more valuable.

  It had been quite the subterfuge keeping their unexpected find a secret—because within moments of finding the two bodies, the Spence was forcibly boarded by a horde of infuriated scythes.

  “How dare you open the vault without us present? How dare you!”

  “Calm yourselves,” Possuelo told them. “We haven’t touched the diamonds, and we weren’t planning to until morning. But not only is there no trust between scythes, they have no patience for one another, either.”

  And when the other scythes saw on the deck two figures that had been hastily covered with sheets, they were naturally curious.

  “What happened here?” one of them asked.

  Possuelo was not a good liar—and he was sure that any lie would be spelled out across his face, drawing suspicion—so he said nothing. It was Jeri who saved the day.

  “Two of my crew,” the captain said. “They got caught in the cables and were crushed.” Then Jeri turned to Possuelo and pointed. “And you had better be true to your word—the Amazonian scythedom will compensate them for their troubles when they are revived.”

  The scythe from EuroScandia—Poss
uelo couldn’t remember her name—was livid. “Speaking to a scythe with such disrespect is a gleaning offense!” she said, drawing a blade, but Possuelo stood between them.

  “You would glean the captain who delivered the diamonds to us?” said Possuelo. “This is not something I will do, nor will I allow you to do, either!”

  “But her insolence!” shouted the EuroScandian.

  “His insolence, at the moment,” said Possuelo, further flustering the angry scythe. “Captain Soberanis, keep your disrespectful tongue silent, and have your deadish crewmen brought below and prepared for transport.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Jeri said, and casually brought a flashlight beam across the open door of the vault.

  The other scythes were so dazzled by the diamonds they saw twinkling in the darkness that they didn’t give a second thought to the bodies being carried away. Even when one hand flopped out from under a sheet, revealing it bore a scythe’s ring.

  In the end, the diamonds were divided, the founders’ robes packed for museum shipment, and the bodies of the illustrious Scythe Anastasia and the notorious Scythe Lucifer went with Possuelo to Amazonia.

  “I would very much like to meet her once she’s revived,” Jeri told Possuelo.

  “As will everyone else in the world,” Possuelo pointed out.

  “Well,” said Jeri with a grin that could charm a turtle from its shell, “good thing I’m a friend of a friend.”

  And now Possuelo found himself sitting across from Anastasia, playing cards as if it were nothing at all. Could she read in his face how momentous this all was, he wondered, and how terrible the tightrope they’d have to walk?

  * * *

  Anastasia could read some of it. What was easier to read was Possuelo’s truco hand. He had a number of tells. Body language, tone of voice, the way his eyes moved across the cards. And although truco had a high element of chance, if one could exploit an opponent’s weaknesses, the odds could be turned.