فصل 38

“ There were 9,834 colonists on Mars. Even more than had lost their lives on the moon in the world’s first mass gleaning. And there were extensive plans to make our sister planet a home for millions, eventually billions. But something went terribly wrong.

“Have you done your homework on Mars? Have you scanned the list of names of those doomed colonists? I don’t expect you to remember or even recognize any of them—not even the ones who were famous at the time, because fame comes and goes, and mostly their fame is gone. But look again, because there’s one name I want you to see.

“Carson Lusk.

“He was there when the disaster occurred, and was lucky enough to be one of the few survivors. He was in the right place at the right time, and managed to get onboard the one escape vessel that wasn’t incinerated when the colony’s reactor blew.

“There was a big celebration when that small group of survivors finally made it back to Earth, but after that, Carson Lusk disappeared from public view.

“Or did he?

“Let’s back up a bit to three months before the reactor took out the colony. If you look at the transport records for craft coming to and from Mars, you’ll see a name that I’m sure you’ll find familiar. Xenocrates. He was a young scythe at the time—and the only one known to ever visit the Mars colony. It was controversial, because it implied that scythes would continue their business on the red planet. Why, people wondered, when there was an entire planet on which to expand? It would be maybe 100,000 years before a scythe would ever be needed on Mars.

“He wasn’t there to glean anyone, he said. He was merely ‘entertaining his curiosity.’ He wanted to know what it would be like to live on Mars—and he was true to his word. He didn’t glean a single person once he reached the planet. He merely took tours and spoke with colonists. It was all very benign.

“I have something to show you now.

“What you’re about to see is a video record of Xenocrates’s arrival. Hard to recognize him, I know—he was still thin then, and his robe didn’t have all the gold, which he added when he became a High Blade. As you can see, he’s being greeted by the governor of the colony, and a few other dignitaries, and—there! Do you see? That young man in the background. That’s Carson Lusk! While Xenocrates was on Mars, Carson was assigned to be his personal valet. Not a good view of him, I know, but he’ll turn in a moment.

“Remember, this was a few months before the disaster. Time enough for people to forget Xenocrates’s visit. Time for plans to be put into place, and for a team of accomplices to secretly carry those plans out, making sabotage look like just another tragic accident.

“As for Carson Lusk, no matter how hard you look, you won’t find any record of him after his return to Earth, because within a year, his name had been changed. There—there, you see? He’s turning toward the camera now. Is his face familiar yet? No? Just add a few years, shorten his hair, and draw in a satisfied, self-important grin.

“That young valet is none other than His Exalted Excellency, Robert Goddard, Overblade of North Merica.” 38 A Grand Reunion of the Dubiously Deceased

The Toll and his entourage took refuge in the same caves that the Sibilants had laid claim to. Those Sibilants were now beyond repentant, prostrating themselves in his presence and professing their unworthiness to even grovel at his feet. Normally he would not accept such hyperbolic adoration, but, considering what these people had done—all the lives they had ended—groveling was a far milder punishment than they deserved.

Of course the Thunderhead reminded him that punishment was not its way.

“Correction must be about lifting one up from one’s poor choices and prior deeds. As long as remorse is sincere, and one is willing to make recompense, there is no purpose to suffering.” Still, Greyson didn’t mind seeing them facedown in bat guano.

The repentant Tonists decorated a grotto as lavishly as they could for him with tapestries and pillows, and begged for ways to be of service.

“This place is as good as any to wait,” the Thunderhead told Greyson.

“Good as any?” Greyson said. “I realize you have no sense of smell, but the stink is terrible in here.” “My chemical sensors are far more accurate than the human sense of smell,” the Thunderhead reminded him. “And the ammonia exuded by bat droppings is well within human tolerance.” “You said wait. What is it we’re waiting for?” Greyson asked.

“A visitor” was all the Thunderhead said.

“Can you at least tell me who it is?” Greyson asked.

“No, I cannot.”

This is how Greyson knew that he would be visited by a scythe. But, considering the increased hostility toward Tonists, why would the Thunderhead welcome such a visit? Maybe the SubSaharan scythedom had found their hiding place and was seeking justice from the Sibilants. But if so, why wouldn’t the Thunderhead “strongly suggest a journey” as it had back at the Cloisters, when Scythe Morrison was the enemy? No amount of tossing and turning that night could jog loose a hint of who it might be.

“Rest easy,” the Thunderhead told him gently in the darkness. “I am here, and no harm will come to you.” Scythe Anastasia had her doubts about this so-called holy man. She needed evidence that the Thunderhead spoke to him. Not just testimony, but actual, irrefutable evidence. Even as a young girl, Citra needed to see something to believe it. This “Toll” was most likely a charismatic schemer. A con artist taking advantage of the gullible, telling them what they wanted to hear, being who they wanted him to be for his own selfish ends.

She wanted to believe that. It was less disturbing than the idea of the Thunderhead choosing a Tonist as its liaison to humanity. It did make sense that the Thunderhead would keep one point of connection with humankind, but why a Tonist? Since the Thunderhead did not make mistakes, it must have had a good reason. But for now, she preferred to believe the Toll was a fraud.

Their destination was an inhospitable SubSaharan forest, a dense unrelenting snarl of trees and wicked, thorny undergrowth that snagged Anastasia’s new robe and pricked her through the fabric, leaving her itchy as they made their way to the cave where the Toll was sequestered. As they finally neared the cave, they were accosted by Tonists standing guard.

“Do not resist,” said Possuelo—but letting her guard down was not easy for Anastasia, knowing who these people were.

The Tonists were unarmed, but their grips were firm. Anastasia scanned their faces. Was this the one who had thrown Tenkamenin to the ground? Was that the one who had hurled Scythe Baba onto the pyre? She could swear their faces were familiar, but it could have been her imagination. Possuelo had insisted that they leave their weapons behind. Now she realized it wasn’t just to kept them from being confiscated, but also to stop Anastasia from giving in to her rage. Every part of her wanted to exact retribution, but she fought it. She had to keep reminding herself that true scythes—honorable scythes—never gleaned in anger. But if a single one of them raised a weapon, she would let loose using her most deadly Bokator moves on them, breaking necks and spines without mercy.

“We request an audience with the Toll,” Possuelo said.

Anastasia was about to point out that this sect was tongueless, but to her surprise, one of the Tonists responded.

“The Toll was elevated to a higher octave two years ago,” one of the Tonists responded. “He is with us now only in harmony.” Possuelo was not deterred. “We have heard otherwise,” he said, then added, “We are not here to glean him; we are here for our mutual benefit.” The Tonists studied them a few moments longer. Serious faces, dripping distrust. Then the one who first spoke said, “Come with us. He has been expecting you.” Anastasia found that annoying on too many levels to count. If he was expecting them, then why did the Tonist deny he was here? And was he truly expecting them, or did this lackey just say that to make the Toll seem mysterious and all-knowing? Before even meeting him, she already detested this man behind the curtain.

The Tonists led them forward, and although Anastasia didn’t pull away from their grip, she gave them the opportunity to reconsider it.

“You’d best let go of me if you want to keep your hands.”

The Tonists did not ease their grip in the least. “My hands will grow back like our tongues,” one of them said. “The Toll, in his wisdom, has given us back our nanites.” “Good for him,” Anastasia said. “At least he’s not a complete imbecile.” Possuelo gave her a warning glare, and Anastasia decided silence would be the best policy, because nothing out of her mouth right now would benefit the situation.

The procession halted at the entrance to the cave—a gaping triangular maw. It was here where they would be presented to the Toll… … but even before the Toll arrived, the first person out of the cave made it abundantly clear to Anastasia that this ride was definitely going to be worth the price of admission.

When Scythe Morrison heard that an elegy of scythes was at the cave entrance, he was convinced that the North Merican scythedom had finally come for him. Goddard must have known he was alive, must have known what he’d been up to these past few years, and had sent this team to bring him in. He considered running, but there was only one exit from the cave. Besides, he wasn’t the same man he had been when he first began this service to the Toll. That junior scythe would save himself at the expense of all others. But this Scythe Morrison would face his capture bravely, defending the Toll to the last, as he had promised to do.

He stepped out first, as he always did, to assess the threat level and be generally intimidating, but he stopped short at the cave entrance when he saw a familiar turquoise robe. A robe he thought he’d never lay eyes on again.

Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded.

“You?” she said.

“No,” Morrison blurted, “not me! I mean, yes it’s me, but I’m not the Toll, I mean.” Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Anastasia.

“What are you even doing here?” she asked.

He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one.

The other scythe in her entourage—Amazonian by the look of his robe—chimed in, several beats behind the curve. “You mean to say you two know each other?” But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder.

“As usual, you’re in the way, Morrison,” he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation.

Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them.

He stopped short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should.

“Okay,” said Scythe Anastasia. “Now I know I’ve lost my mind.”

Greyson knew that the Thunderhead must have been enjoying this moment immensely—he could see its cameras whirring on the nearby trees, taking in everyone’s expressions, swiveling back and forth to see this absurd little tableau from every angle. It could have given him at least an inkling that he’d be seeing not only someone he knew, but the very individual who, in a way, was responsible for the strange path his life had taken. It couldn’t have told him directly, of course, but it could have given him hints and let him deduce it for himself. But then, even with a thousand clues, he would have marched into this encounter clueless.

He resolved not to give the Thunderhead the satisfaction of seeing him bug-eyed and slack-jawed. So when Anastasia suggested that she may have just lost her mind, he said, as nonchalantly as he could, “Endura rises! All rejoice!” “Endura didn’t rise,” she said. “Just me.”

He held his formal expression for a moment more but couldn’t maintain it. He began to grin. “So you really are alive! I wasn’t sure if those broadcasts were real.” “And… you two know each other as well?” said the Amazonian scythe.

“In a previous life,” said Anastasia.

Then one of her other travel companions began to laugh. “Well, isn’t this rich! A grand reunion of the dubiously deceased!” Greyson’s attention lingered. There was something engaging about her. Or him.

Mendoza, trying to regain some decorum, cleared his throat, puffed up a bit, and spoke in his best stage voice “His Sonority, the Toll, welcomes you all, and grants you an audience!” he declared.

“A private audience,” Greyson quietly prompted.

“A private audience!” boomed Mendoza, but he made no move to leave.

“Meaning,” said Greyson, “just between Scythe Anastasia and me.”

Mendoza turned to him, his eyes panicked. “I don’t think that’s wise. At least take Morrison with you for protection.” But Morrison put up his hands in instant surrender. “Leave me out of this,” he said. “I’m not going up against Scythe Anastasia.” The Thunderhead’s cameras whirred, and Greyson could swear it sounded like electronic laughter.

“Take the others in,” Greyson said, “and get them something to eat. They must be starving.” He turned to the Tonists around them who had witnessed this odd but momentous reunion. “All is well,” he told them, then gestured to Anastasia. “Walk with me.” And the two of them stepped off together into the woods.

“ ’Walk with me’?” said Anastasia when they were out of earshot. “Really? Could you be any more pretentious?” “It’s part of the act,” Greyson told her.

“So you admit it’s an act!”

“The prophet part is—but it’s true that I’m not unsavory, and the Thunderhead really does speak to me.” He gave her a wry grin. “Maybe it’s my reward for saving your life that day and letting you hit me with your car.” “It wasn’t my car,” Anastasia pointed out. “It was Scythe Curie’s. I was just learning how to drive it.” “And a good thing, too! If you had been a better driver and had missed me, we’d have all been incinerated,” he pointed out. “So, does this mean that Scythe Curie is still alive, too?” Anastasia’s heart sank at having to speak the truth aloud. She doubted it would ever be easier. “Marie died making sure I could eventually be revived.” “Revived,” said Greyson. “That explains why you don’t look a day older than you did three years ago.” She took a long look at him. He did look different, and it wasn’t just the outfit. His jaw seemed a little harder, his gait more confident, and his gaze so direct as to be invasive. He had learned to play this role well—just as she had learned to play hers.

“The last I heard, you refused the offer of sanctuary I arranged for you in Amazonia. So instead you stayed with the Tonists?” His gaze became even more intrusive. Not judgmental, but possessing a deeper sight. A bit like the Thunderhead itself.

“Hiding out with the Tonists was your suggestion—or did you forget that?” “No, I remember,” she told him, “but I never thought you’d stay. I never thought you’d become their prophet.” She looked over his vestments. “I can’t decide whether you look ridiculous or regal.” “Both,” he told her. “The trick is convincing people that strange clothing makes you something more than ordinary. But you know all about that, don’t you?” Anastasia had to admit he was right. The world treated you differently—defined you differently—when you wore robes or regalia.

“Just as long as you don’t believe it yourself,” she told him.

“When I take all this off, I’m still Greyson Tolliver,” he said.

“And when I slip out of this robe, I’m still Citra Terranova.”

He smiled broadly at that. “I never knew your given name until now. Citra. I like it.” Hearing him say her name gave her a sudden wash of nostalgia. A yearning for a time before all this. “There aren’t many people who call me that anymore.” He looked at her wistfully. “Funny, but it was never easy for me to talk to you before. Now it’s easier than talking with anyone else. I think we’ve become alike in a lot of ways.” She laughed at that. Not because it was funny, but because it was true. The rest of the world saw them both as symbols. Intangible light to guide them in the darkness. She understood now why ancient peoples turned their heroes into constellations.

“You haven’t told me why you wanted an audience with the Toll.”

“Scythe Possuelo thinks you know a safe place where Goddard won’t find us,” Anastasia said.

“Well, if the Thunderhead knows of a place like that, it hasn’t told me. But then there’s a lot of things it doesn’t tell me.” “It’s all right,” said Anastasia. “Possuelo just wants to protect me, but I don’t want to hide.” “What do you want?” Greyson asked.

What did she want? Citra Terranova wanted to shed her robe, seek out her family, and argue with her brother about unimportant things. But Scythe Anastasia wouldn’t have any of that.

“I want to bring down Goddard,” she said. “I’ve been able to place him on Mars at the time of the disaster, but being there doesn’t prove he caused it.” “He survived Mars, and he survived Endura,” said Greyson. “Suspicious but not incriminating.” “Exactly, which is why there’s someone else I need to find,” Anastasia said. “Have you ever heard of Scythe Alighieri?” Possuelo had to leave them that afternoon. He was called back to Amazonia by his High Blade.

“Tarsila gives me lots of leeway—especially when my salvage venture brought forth you,” he told Anastasia, “but when word got out that I had brought our artist friend to SubSahara, she demanded my return, lest we be accused of conspiring with Tonists.” He sighed. “We are a very tolerant region, but after the attack on Tenkamenin’s palace, even the most accepting regions are cooling to Tonists—and our High Blade doesn’t want bad publicity.” Several Tonists passed in the cavern behind them. They bowed, reverently saying “Your Honors,” some of their voices still a little slurred, as it was the first week with their new tongues. It was hard to believe that these were the same violent, crazed Sibilants who had murdered Tenkamenin. Greyson—the Toll, that is—had turned them and brought them back from that awful edge of their own humanity. Anastasia could not forgive them, but she found an ability to coexist with them.

“People are vessels,” Jeri had said to her. “They hold whatever’s poured into them.” And apparently Greyson had drained them and refilled them with something far more palatable.

Possuelo said his goodbye at the entrance to the cave. “This place is isolated, and if the Toll truly is under the protection of the Thunderhead, you’ll be safe with him,” he told her. “It’s not exactly the sanctuary I was looking for, but who knows if that place even exists. Rumors aren’t worth the air they’re whispered on.” “I’m hoping the Toll will help me find Alighieri.”

“I doubt he even exists anymore,” Possuelo lamented. “He was ancient when I was an apprentice, and I am, as you say, no spring chicken.” He laughed and embraced her. If felt comforting. Fatherly. Until she was in his embrace, she hadn’t realized how much she missed that. It made her think of her family once more. She had not tried to contact them since her revival, as Possuelo had advised her against it. They were safe and protected in a friendly region, he had assured her. Perhaps there would come a time for that reunion, or perhaps she’d never see them again. Either way, there was still too much to be done for her to even think about it.

“Say goodbye to Captain Soberanis for me,” Possuelo said. “I take it Jerico is staying on.” “As you ordered,” Anastasia said.

Possuelo raised an eyebrow. “I never gave such an order,” he said. “Jerico does as Jerico pleases. That the good captain has forsaken the sea, and has chosen to be your protector, says a lot about both of you.” He embraced her one final time. “Take care, meu anjo.” Then he turned and strode toward his transport that waited in a clearing.

Ezra the artist, who Possuelo saw fit to set free, took to painting a mural to fill one of the larger caverns. It tickled him that this could become a pilgrimage destination for future Tonists, if indeed there would be any future Tonists, and that his cave paintings might be endlessly analyzed by scholars of tomorrow. He introduced some odd elements just to confuse them. A dancing bear, a five-eyed boy, and an eleven-hour clock missing the number 4.

“What’s life if you can’t mess with the future?” he said.

He asked the Toll if he remembered him, and Greyson told him that he did. It was a half-truth. Greyson remembered Ezra’s audience with him, because it had been a turning point for Greyson as well. The first time he gave advice rather than just being a mouthpiece for the Thunderhead. But he had no memory at all of Ezra’s face.

“Ah, the wonderful limitations of the biological brain!” the Thunderhead said wistfully. “The remarkable ability to dispense with the unnecessary, rather than filing every little thing into a cumbersome compendium!” The Thunderhead called humanity’s selective memory “the gift of forgetting.” There were many things Greyson had forgotten that he wished he could remember. Most of his childhood. Any warm moments with his parents. And there were things he remembered that he wished he could forget. Like the look on Purity’s face when Scythe Constantine gleaned her.

He knew the gift of forgetting was now a bane to Anastasia, because the world seems to have forgotten Scythe Alighieri. But the Thunderhead hadn’t. Alighieri was there in its cumbersome compendium of human history. Getting to that information was the problem.

The Thunderhead had been silent for his entire conversation with Anastasia. Then, after she had retired to the cave to join her comrades, it finally spoke up. “I cannot, in any way, help Anastasia find the man she’s looking for.” “But you do know where he can be found, don’t you?”

“I do. But it would be a violation for me to communicate his location to her.” “Can you tell me?”

“I could,” said the Thunderhead, “but if you then tell her, I will be forced to mark you unsavory, and then where would we be?” Greyson sighed. “There must be a work-around….”

“Perhaps,” said the Thunderhead. “But I can’t help you find it.”

Work-arounds. The Thunderhead had used him as one back when he was a naive Nimbus Academy student. And come to think of it, he remembered learning about an official work-around in one of his early classes at the academy, before he got himself expelled. There was a sort of ritualistic practice that allowed a Nimbus agent to speak with a scythe without breaking the law. A trialogue it was called. It involved a professional go-between who was well versed in scythe/state protocols. What could, and could not, be said.

What they needed, Greyson realized, was a go-between.

In his private cavern spread with rugs and hung with tapestries, the Toll sat on one of the many pillows strewn about the space, facing Jerico Soberanis.

Greyson estimated he and Soberanis were roughly the same age. That is unless the salvage captain had turned a corner, but Greyson didn’t think so. The young captain didn’t seem to be the type who would set back so far. Still, there was something noble there. Not so much wisdom, but worldliness. Greyson had been all over the world yet saw so little of it in his protective cocoon, he felt like he’d been nowhere at all. But Jerico Soberanis had truly seen the world, and what was more, knew the world. It was something to be admired.

“Scythe Anastasia explained why you called for me,” Soberanis said. “How will this work, Your… What is it they call you?” “Your Sonority,” Greyson said.

“That’s right, ‘Your Sonority,’ ” Soberanis said with a smirk.

“You think it’s funny?”

The smirk didn’t leave the salvage captain’s face. “Did you come up with that?” “No. My chief curate did.”

“He ought to be in advertising.”

“He was.”

The conversation lagged. Not surprising. This was entirely artificial and forced, but it needed to happen.

“Say something,” Greyson told the salvage captain.

“What sort of thing should I say?”

“It doesn’t matter what you talk about. We just need to have a conversation. Then I’ll pose questions to the Thunderhead about the conversation.” “And?”

“And it will answer.”

Jerico smiled again. Mischievous. Alluring in an odd sort of way. “A game of chess, then, where all the pieces are invisible!” “If you like,” said Greyson.

“Very well.” Jerico took a moment to consider their subject matter, then said something Greyson was not expecting.

“You and I have something in common.”

“What would that be?”

“We both sacrificed our lives to save Scythe Anastasia.”

Greyson shrugged. “It was only temporary.”

“Still,” said Soberanis, “it takes courage and a remarkable leap of faith to do so.” “Not really. People splat every day.”

“Yes, but neither of us are that sort. To render ourselves deadish goes against our basic natures. Not everyone would have made the choice we made. This is how I know that you are much more than that outfit you wear.” Soberanis smiled again. This time it was genuine. Honest. Greyson had never met someone with such a wide variety of smiles. Each one spoke volumes.

“Thank you,” said Greyson. “I suppose our mutual admiration of Scythe Anastasia does… bond us in a way.” He waited to see if the Thunderhead would say anything at all, but it didn’t. It was waiting to be asked. Greyson still didn’t know what to ask it.

“I hope this isn’t insulting,” Greyson said, “but I’m not sure how I should address you. As Mr. or Ms. Soberanis?” The salvage captain glanced around the cavern and became noticeably uncomfortable. “I’m at a bit of a loss. I very rarely find myself in a place where I can’t see the sky.” “Why should that matter?”

“I suppose it shouldn’t… I am always out of doors, or intentionally near a window or skylight… but here in a cave…” Greyson still didn’t understand, and the captain became just the tiniest bit miffed. “I will never understand how you binaries are so attached to your birth plumbing. Why should it matter whether a person has ovaries, or testicles, or both?” “It doesn’t,” Greyson said, feeling a little flustered. “I mean… it does matter for some things… doesn’t it?” “You tell me.”

Greyson found he couldn’t look away from that gaze. “Maybe… it doesn’t matter as much as I thought?” He hadn’t meant to pose it as a question. But it made no difference, because Jerico was not giving him an answer.

“Why don’t you just call me Jeri, and we don’t have to worry about technicalities.” “All right! Jeri it is. Let’s begin.”

“I thought we already had. Is it my move?” Jeri feigned moving an imaginary chess piece forward, then said, “I very much like your eyes. I see how they can persuade people to follow you.” “I don’t think my eyes have anything to do with that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Greyson pressed his earpiece deeper in his ear. “Thunderhead—do my eyes influence people to follow me?” “Yes, on occasion,” the Thunderhead responded. “They can be helpful when all else fails.” Greyson found himself blushing in spite of himself. Jeri read it and offered a new variation on that grin.

“So the Thunderhead agrees with me.”

“Maybe.”

Greyson had entered this whole thing assuming he would be in control of the conversation, but clearly he was not. And yet he was beginning to grin as well. He was sure, though, that he only had one grin, and that it looked profoundly stupid.

“Tell me about Madagascar,” he asked, shifting the focus away from himself.

Jeri’s demeanor immediately changed with thoughts of home. “My region is beautiful—the mountains, the beaches, the forests. The people are kind, gentle, and accepting. You should see Antananarivo—our capital city—and the way the sun hits the hills at sunset!” “Thunderhead,” said Greyson, “tell me something interesting about Antananarivo.” The Thunderhead spoke, and Greyson listened.

“What did it say?” Jeri asked.

“Uh… it told me that the tallest building in Antananarivo is 309.67 meters high, and is exactly the same height as four other buildings in the world, down to the millimeter.” Jeri leaned back unimpressed. “Is that the most interesting fact it could find? What about the jacaranda trees around Lake Anosy, or the royal tombs?” But Greyson put up his hand to stop Jeri, and thought for a moment. The Thunderhead never said anything without reason. The trick was to read its mind. “Thunderhead, where are those other four buildings—I’m curious.” “One in the Chilargentine region,” it told him, “another in Britannia, the third in Israebia, and the fourth in the region of NuZealand.” Greyson told Jeri, who was still unimpressed. “I’ve been to all those regions. But home is always the best, I suppose.” “Have you been to every region in the world?” Greyson asked.

“All the ones with a coast,” Jeri said. “I have an aversion to landlocked places.” And then the Thunderhead offered a simple, and obvious, opinion—which Greyson shared.

“The Thunderhead says you’d probably be most at home in regions that feature an island or archipelago roughly the size of Madagascar.” Greyson turned his head a bit—a habit he had when he was speaking to the Thunderhead in the presence of others. “Thunderhead, what regions might that be?” But the Thunderhead was silent.

Greyson grinned. “Nothing… which means we’re on to something!”

“The ones I can think of off the top of my head,” said Jeri, “are Britannia, Caribbea, the Region of the Rising Sun, NuZealand, and the ‘Nesias.” “Interesting,” said Greyson.

“What?”

“Britannia and NuZealand have come up twice….”

To that, the Thunderhead was, once more, silent.

“I’m beginning to like this game,” said Jeri.

Greyson couldn’t deny that he was, too.

“What region would you like to live in?” Jeri asked. “If you had your choice of any in the world?” It was a loaded question, and perhaps Jeri knew that. Because everyone else in the world did have that choice. Anyone could live anywhere. But for Greyson it was less of an actual place than a state of mind.

“I’d want to live in a place where nobody knows me,” he told Jeri.

“But nobody does know you,” Jeri said. “They know the Toll—but not you. Take me, for instance; I don’t even know your name.” “It’s… Greyson.”

Jeri smiled with the warmth of the Madagascan sun.

“Hello, Greyson.”

That simple greeting seemed to both melt him and freeze him at once. Madagascans were known to be charming—perhaps that’s all it was. Or perhaps not. He realized he’d have to unpack it later.

“For me, I’d never want to be far from the sea,” Jeri said.

“Thunderhead,” said Greyson, “what are your thoughts on that?”

And the Thunderhead said, “There is a city or town in every region that is the farthest from the sea. I assume the captain would not care to live in any of those places.” “But,” said Greyson, “if they had jacaranda trees like that Madagascan lake, maybe Jeri might feel at home.” “Perhaps,” said the Thunderhead.

And then Greyson made a stealth move. The kind of move one’s opponent wouldn’t see coming. But of course the Thunderhead did. In fact, the Thunderhead welcomed it.

“Tell me, Thunderhead, what are some of the regions where jacarandas grow.” “Although they do best in warmer climates, they grow in almost every region now,” the Thunderhead told him. “Their purple blooms are appreciated around the world.” “Yes,” said Greyson. “But can you give me a list of… oh, say… four places where they can be found?” “Of course, Greyson. Jacaranda trees can be found in WestMerica, Isthmus, Lower Himalaya, and even in the botanical gardens of Britannia.” Jeri studied him. “What is it? What did the Thunderhead say?”

“Check and mate,” Greyson said, and gave Jeri his stupidest grin.

“We’re looking for a town in the Britannia region that’s farthest from the sea. That’s where we’ll find Scythe Alighieri,” Greyson told Anastasia.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” said Greyson. “Probably,” he corrected. “Maybe.”

Anastasia considered it, but then returned her gaze to Greyson. “You said we.” Greyson nodded. “I’m going with you.” It was the most spontaneous decision Greyson had made in years. It felt good. More than good, it felt freeing.

“Greyson, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Anastasia said.

But he would not be deterred. “I’m the Toll, and the Toll goes where he pleases,” Greyson said. “Besides, I want to be there when Scythe Anastasia changes the world!” The Thunderhead said nothing either way. It didn’t influence him against it; it didn’t suggest that it was the right thing to do. Or perhaps it wasn’t commenting because it involved a scythe. It was only when Greyson was alone again that the Thunderhead spoke to him. It wasn’t about their destination, however. The conversation took an entirely different direction.

“I sensed a change in your physiology as you spoke to the salvage captain,” the Thunderhead said.

“Why is that your business?” Greyson snapped.

“It was just an observation,” the Thunderhead said calmly.

“With all your years of studying human nature, don’t you know when you’re intruding into my privacy?” “I do know,” said the Thunderhead. “And I also know when you want that privacy intruded upon.” As always the Thunderhead was right, and it ticked Greyson off. He wanted to talk about it. To process it. But of course there was no one he could talk to but the Thunderhead.

“I believe she had an effect on you,” it said.

“She? Isn’t it presumptuous of you to call Jeri ‘she’?”

“Not at all. The sky above the cave is clear and full of stars.”

Then the Thunderhead explained to Greyson how Jeri saw gender, a thing as varied as the wind and ephemeral as clouds.

“That’s… poetic,” said Greyson, “but impractical.”

“Who are we to judge such things?” the Thunderhead said. “And besides, the human heart is rarely practical.” “Now that sounds judgmental….”

“Quite the opposite,” said the Thunderhead. “I long for the luxury of being impractical. It would add… texture… to my existence.” It was only later, after Greyson had taken his earpiece out and he was lying in bed, that it occurred to him why his conversation with Jeri Soberanis felt so inviting and unsettling at the same time.

Hello, Greyson, Jeri had said. Nothing strange about that. Except that it echoed something deeper. They were the same words, the same tone of voice the Thunderhead had used the moment it began speaking to him again.