Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(93)

The Tonists, who must have been used to all sorts of travel, weren’t bothered. They discussed legends, debating which were true and which were false, and which were somewhere between.

“We’ve been from the Pyramids in Israebia to the Great Wall of PanAsia in search of clues to the Great Fork’s whereabouts,” their leader said. “It’s the pilgrimage that matters. I doubt any of us would know what to do if we actually found it.”

Once the train reached a cruising speed of eight hundred miles per hour, Citra excused herself to use the restroom, where she splashed water on her face, trying not to let exhaustion overtake her. She had forgotten to lock the door. Had she done that, her journey might have played out much differently.

A man burst in on her. Her initial thought was just that he didn’t know someone was there, but before she could turn—before she could do much of anything—he had a gold-edged blade at her throat, positioned to do the most damage.

“You have been selected for gleaning,” he said, speaking in Common, but with a pronounced accent that must have been Portuzonian, which was the primary language of Amazonia. His robe was a deep forest green, and she remembered reading somewhere that scythes of that region all wore the same green robe.

“You’re making a mistake!” Citra said, before he could slice open her neck.

“Then tell me my mistake,” he said. “But be quick about it.”

She tried to come up with something that would stay his hand other than the truth, but she realized there was nothing else. “I’m a scythe’s apprentice. If you tried to glean me I would just be revived, and you would be disciplined for not checking your ring first to see if I had immunity.”

He smiled. “It is as I thought. You’re the one they’re all looking for.” He took the blade away from her neck. “Listen to me carefully. There are Chilargentine scythes aboard this train disguised as regular passengers. You can’t avoid them, but if you wish to remain out of their clutches, I suggest you come with me.”

Citra’s instinct was to tell him no, and that she’d be fine on her own. But her judgment pulled rank on instinct, and she went with him. He led her to the next car, where, even though the train was crowded, there was an empty seat beside him. He introduced himself as Scythe Possuelo of Amazonia.

“What now?” Citra asked.

“We wait.”

Citra pulled her hood over her head, and sure enough, a few minutes later, a man made his way forward from the very back car, dressed like any other traveler, but moving slowly and consulting an object in his palm that looked like a phone but was not.

“Don’t flee,” whispered Scythe Possuelo to Citra. “Give him no control of the situation.”

The device began to click like a Geiger counter as the man reached them, and he stopped, his quarry found.

“Citra Terranova?” he said.

Citra calmly removed her hood. Her heart was pounding but she didn’t let that show. “Congratulations,” she said, “you found me. Gold star for you.”

He was thrown off by the expression, but that didn’t stop him. “I am taking you into custody.” He pulled out a jolt baton. “Do not 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.