Alcatraz (51 page)

Someone was talking.
‘.
.
.
I cannot interfere with the rules of Crystallia, Bastille.’

I fuzzed back into consciousness.
Bastille had released me from her unprovoked, unregistered hug and moved on to speak with her father.
The room had cleared out considerably, though there was still a number of people standing at the perimeter of the room, curiously watching our little group.

‘I know, Father,’ Bastille said.
‘I must face their reprimand, as is my duty to the order.’

‘That’s my girl,’ the king said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
‘But don’t take what they say
too
harshly.
The world is far less intense a place than the knights sometimes make it out to be.’

Draulin raised her eyebrow at this.
Looking at them – the king in his blue-and-gold robes, Draulin in her silvery armor – they actually seemed to
fit
together.

I still felt sorry for Bastille.
No wonder she’s so uptight
, I thought.
Royalty on one side, hard-line knight on the other
.
That would be like trying to grow up pressed between two boulders.

‘Brig,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘We need to speak about what the Council is planning to do.’

The king turned.
‘You’re too late, I’m afraid, Leavenworth.
Our minds are all but made up.
You’ll have your vote, but I doubt it will make a difference.’

‘How could you even consider giving up Mokia?’
Grandpa Smedry asked.

‘To save lives, my friend.’
The king spoke the words in a wearied voice, and I could almost
see
the burdens he was carrying.
‘It is not a pleasant choice to make, but if it stops the war .
.
.’

‘You can’t honestly expect them to keep their promises.
Highlighting Heinleins, man!
This is insanity.’

The king shook his head.
‘I will not be the king who was offered peace and who passed it by, Leavenworth.
I will not be a warmonger.
If there is a chance at reconciliation .
.
.
But we should speak of this someplace outside the public eye.
Let us retire to my sitting room.’

My grandfather nodded curtly, then stepped to the side and waved me over.
‘What do you think?’
he asked quietly as I approached.

I shrugged.
‘He seems sincere.’

‘Brig is nothing if not sincere,’ Grandpa Smedry whispered.
‘He is a passionate man; those Librarians must have done some clever talking to bring him to this point.
Still, he’s not the only vote on the Council.’

‘But he’s the king, isn’t he?’

‘He’s the High King,’ Grandpa Smedry said, raising a finger.
‘He is our foremost leader but Nalhalla isn’t the only kingdom in our coalition.
There are thirteen kings, queens, and dignitaries like myself who sit on that Council.
If we can persuade enough of them to vote against this treaty, then we might be able to kill it.’

I nodded.
‘What can I do to help?’
Mokia
couldn’t
fall.
I would see that it didn’t.

‘I’ll speak with Brig,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘You go see if you can track down your cousin Folsom.
I put him in charge of Smedry affairs here in Nalhalla.
He might have some insight about this whole mess.’

‘Okay.’

Grandpa Smedry fished in one of the pockets of his tuxedo jacket.
‘Here, you might want this back.’
He held out a single Lens with no coloring or tint to it.
It glowed radiantly to my Oculator’s eyes, more powerfully than any I’d ever seen except for the Translator’s Lenses.

I’d almost forgotten about it.
I’d discovered the Lens in the Library of Alexandria at the tomb of Alcatraz the First, but hadn’t been able to determine what it did.
I’d given it over to my grandfather for inspection.

‘Did you figure out what it does?’
I asked, taking it from him.

He nodded eagerly.
‘There were lots of tests I had to do.
I meant to tell you yesterday but, well .
.
.’

‘You’re late.’

‘Exactly!’
Grandpa Smedry said.
‘Anyway, this is a very useful Lens.
Useful indeed.
Almost mythical.
Couldn’t believe it myself, had to test the thing three times before I was convinced.’

I grew excited, imagining the Lens summoning the spirits of the dead to fight at my side.
Or, instead, perhaps it would make people explode in a wave of red smoke if I focused it on them.
Red smoke rocks.

‘So what does it do?’

‘It allows you to see when someone is telling the truth.’

That wasn’t exactly what I’d been expecting.

‘Yes,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘A Truthfinder’s Lens.
I never thought I’d hold one myself.
Quite remarkable!’

‘I .
.
.
don’t suppose it makes people explode when they tell lies?’

‘Afraid not, lad.’

‘No red smoke?’

‘No red smoke.’

I sighed and tucked the Lens away anyway.
It did seem useful, though after discovering it hidden in the tomb, I’d really been hoping for some kind of weapon.

‘Don’t look so glum, lad,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘I don’t think you understand the gem you hold in your pocket.
That Lens could prove extremely useful to you over the next few days.
Keep it close.’

I nodded.
‘I don’t suppose you have another pair of Firebringer’s Lenses you could loan me?’

He chuckled.
‘Didn’t do enough damage with the last pair, eh?
I don’t have any more of those, but .
.
.
here, let me see.’
He fished around inside his tuxedo jacket again.
‘Ah!’
he said, whipping out a pair of Lenses.
They glowed with a modest light and had a violet tint.

That’s right, violet.
I wondered if the people who forge Oculatory Lenses
try
to make us all look like pansies, or if that was just accidental.

‘What are they?’
I asked.

‘Disguiser’s Lenses,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘Put them on, focus on the image of someone in your head, and the Lenses will disguise you to look like that person.’

It seemed pretty cool.
I took the Lenses appreciatively.
‘Can they make me look like other things?
Like, say, a rock?’

‘I guess,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘Though that rock would have to be wearing glasses.
The Lenses appear in any disguise you use.’

That made them less powerful, but I figured I’d come up with a way to use them.
‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘I might have some other offensive Lenses I can dig up later when I get back to the keep,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘I suspect that we’ll deliberate here for another two or three hours before adjourning until the vote this evening.
It’s about ten right now; let’s meet back at Keep Smedry in three hours to share information, all right?’

‘All right.’

Grandpa Smedry winked at me.
‘See you this afternoon, then.
If you break anything important, be sure to blame it on Draulin!
It’ll be good for her.’

I nodded, and we parted ways.

5

I
t’s time for me to talk about someone other than myself.
Please don’t be too heartbroken; once in a while, we need to discuss somebody who is not quite as charming, intelligent, or impressive as I am.

That’s right, it’s time to talk about you.

Occasionally, while infiltrating the Hushlands, I run across enterprising young people who want to resist Librarian control of their country.
You ask me what you can do to fight.
Well, I have three answers for you.

First, make sure you buy lots and lots and lots of copies of my books.
There are plenty of uses for them (I’ll discuss this in a bit) and for every one you buy, we donate money to the Alcatraz Smedry Wildlife Fund for Buying Alcatraz Smedry Cool Stuff.

The second thing you can do isn’t quite as awesome, but it’s still good.
You can
read
.

Librarians control their world via information.
Grandpa Smedry says that information is a far better weapon than any sword or Oculatory Lens, and I’m beginning to think he might be right.
(Though the kitten chain saw I discussed in book two is a close second.)

The best way to fight the Librarians is to read a lot of books.
Everything you can get your hands on.
Then do the third thing I’m going to tell you about.

Buy lots of copies of my books.

Oh, wait.
Did I already mention that?
Well, then, there are
four
things you can do.
But this intro is already too long.
I’ll tell you about the last one later.
Know, however, that it involves popcorn.

‘Okay,’ I said, turning to Bastille.
‘How do I find this Folsom guy?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said flatly, pointing.
‘Maybe ask his
mom
, who is standing right there?’

Oh, right
, I thought.
Quentin’s brother, that makes Pattywagon his mother
.

She was talking animatedly (which is how she always talks) with Sing.
I waved to Bastille, but she hesitated.

‘What?’
I asked.

‘My mission is officially over,’ she said, grimacing and glancing toward Draulin.
‘I need to report at Crystallia.’
Draulin had made her way toward the exit of the room, and she was regarding Bastille in that way of hers that was somehow both insistent and patient.

‘What about your father?’
I said, glancing in the direction he and Grandpa Smedry had disappeared.
‘He barely got time to see you two.’

‘The kingdom takes precedence over everything else.’

That sounded like a rehearsed line to me.
Probably something Bastille had heard a lot when growing up.

‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Well, uh, I’ll see you, then.’

‘Yeah.’

I braced myself for another hug (known in the industry as a ‘teenage boy forced reboot’) but she just stood there, then cursed under her breath and hurried out after her mother.
I was left trying to figure out just when things between us had grown so awkward.

(I was tempted to think back on all the good times we had spent together.
Bastille smacking me in the face with her handbag.
Bastille kicking me in the chest.
Bastille making fun of something dumb I’d said.
I would probably have a good case for abuse if I hadn’t also (1) broken her sword, (2) kicked her first, and (3) been so awesome.)

Feeling strangely abandoned, I stepped up to my aunt Patty.

‘You done being affectionate with the young knight there?’
she asked me.
‘Cute thing, isn’t she?’

‘What’s this?’
Sing said.
‘Did I miss something?’

‘Urk!’
I said, blushing.
‘No, nothing!’

‘I’m sure,’ Patty said, winking at me.

‘Look, I need to find your son Folsom!’

‘Hum.
Whatcha need him for?’

‘Important Smedry business.’

‘Well, it’s a good thing I’m an important Smedry, then, isn’t it!’

She had me there.
‘Grandpa wants me to ask about what the Librarians have been doing in town since he left.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’
Patty said.

‘Because .
.
.
well, I .
.
.’

‘Slowness of thought,’ Patty said consolingly.
‘It’s okay, hon.
Your father isn’t all that bright either.
Well, let’s go find Folsom, then!
See ya, Sing!’

I reached for Sing, hoping he wouldn’t abandon me to this awful woman, but he had already turned to go with some other people, and Patty had me by the arm.

I should stop and note here that in the years since that day, I’ve grown rather fond of Aunt Pattywagon.
This statement has nothing at all to do with the fact that she threatened to toss me out a window if I didn’t include it.

The mountainous woman pulled me from the room and down the hallway.
Soon we were standing in the sunlight on the front steps outside as Patty sent one of the serving men to fetch transportation.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘if you tell me where Folsom is, I could just go find him on my own.
No need to—’

‘He’s out and about on very important business,’ Patty said.
‘I’ll have to lead you.
I can’t tell you.
You see, as a Librarian expert, he’s been put in charge of a recent defection.’

‘Defection?’

‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You know, a foreign agent who decides to join the other side?
A Librarian fled her homeland and joined the Free Kingdoms.
My son is in charge of helping her grow accustomed to life here.
Ah, here’s our ride!’

I turned, half expecting another dragon, but apparently we two didn’t warrant a full-size dragon this time.
Instead, a coachman rode up with an open-topped carriage pulled by rather mundane horses.

‘Horses?’
I said.

‘Of course,’ Patty said, climbing into the carriage.
‘What were you expecting?
A .
.
.
what is it you call them?
A pottlemobile?’

‘Automobile,’ I said, joining her.
‘No, I wasn’t expecting one of those.
Horses just seem so .
.
.
rustic.’

‘Rustic?’
she said as the coachman urged his beasts into motion.
‘Why, they’re far more advanced than those bottlemobiles you Hushlanders use!’

It’s a common belief in the Free Kingdoms that everything they have is more advanced than what we backward Hushlanders use.
For instance, they like to say that swords are more advanced than guns.
This may sound ridiculous until you realize their swords are magical and are, indeed, more advanced than guns – the kinds of early guns the Free Kingdomers had before they switched to silimatic technology.

Horses, though .
.
.
I’ve never bought that one.

‘Okay, look,’ I said.
‘Horses are
not
more advanced than cars.’

‘Sure they are,’ Patty said.

‘Why?’

‘Simple.
Poop.’

I blinked.
‘Poop?’

‘Yup.
What do those slobomobiles make?
Foul-smelling gas.
What do horses make?’

‘Poop?’

‘Poop,’ she said.
‘Fertilizer.
You get to go somewhere,
and
you get a useful by-product.’

I sat back, feeling a little bit disturbed.
Not because of what Patty said – I was used to Free Kingdomer rationalizations.
No, I was disturbed because I’d somehow managed to talk about both excrement and flatulence in the course of two chapters.

If I could somehow work in barfing, then I’d have a complete potty humor trifecta.

Riding in the carriage allowed me a good look at the city’s people, buildings, and shops.
Oddly, I was just surprised by how .
.
.
well, normal everyone seemed.
Yes, there were castles.
Yes, the people wore tunics and robes instead of slacks and blouses.
But the expressions on their faces – the laughter, the frustration, even the boredom – were just like those back home.

Actually, riding down that busy road – with the castle peaks rising like jagged mountains into the sky – felt an awful lot like riding in a taxi through New York City.
People are people.
Wherever they come from or whatever they look like, they’re the same.
As the philosopher Garnglegoot the Confused once said: ‘I’ll have a banana and crayon sandwich, please.’
(Garnglegoot always did have trouble staying on topic.)

‘So where do all of these people live?’
I asked, then cringed, expecting Bastille to shoot back something like ‘In their homes, stupid.’
It took me a second to remember that Bastille wasn’t there to make fun of me.
That made me sad, though I should have been happy to avoid the mockery.

‘Oh, most of them are from Nalhalla City here,’ Patty said.
‘Though a fair number of them probably traveled in today via Transporter’s Glass.’

‘Transporter’s Glass?‘

Aunt Patty nodded her blond-haired head.
‘It’s some very interesting technology, just developed by the Kuanalu Institute over in Halaiki using sands your father discovered a number of years ago.
It lets people cross great distances in an instant, using a feasibly economic expenditure of brightsand.
I’ve read some very exciting research on the subject.’

I blinked.
I believe I’ve mentioned how unreasonably scholarly the Smedry clan is.
A remarkable number of them are professors, researchers, or scientists.
We’re like an unholy mix of the Brady Bunch and the UCLA honors department.

‘You’re a professor, aren’t you?’
I accused.

‘Why, yes, dear!’
Aunt Patty said.

‘Silimatics?’

‘That’s right; how’d you guess?’

‘Just lucky,’ I said.
‘Have you ever heard of a theory that says Oculators can power technological types of glass in addition to their Lenses?’

She harrumphed.
‘Been speaking with your father, I see.’

‘My father?’

‘I’m well aware of that paper he wrote,’ Aunt Patty continued, ‘but I don’t buy it.
Claiming that Oculators were somehow brightsand in human form.
Doesn’t that seem silly to you?
How can sand be human in form?’

‘I—’

‘I’ll admit that there
are
some discrepancies,’ she continued, ignoring my attempt to interject.
‘However, your father is jumping to conclusions.
This will require
far
more research than he’s put into it!
Research by people who are more practiced at true silimatics than that scoundrel.
Oh, looks like you’re getting a zit on your nose, by the way.
Too bad that man in the carriage next to us just took a picture of you.’

I jumped, glancing to the side where another carriage had pulled up.
The man there was holding up squares of glass about a foot on each side, pointing them toward us, then tapping them.
I was still new to all this, but I was pretty sure he was doing something very similar to taking pictures with a camera.
When he noticed my attention, he lowered his panes of glass, tipped his cap toward me, and his carriage pulled away.

‘What was that all about?’
I asked.

‘Well, hon, you
are
the heir of the Smedry line – not to mention an Oculator raised inside the Hushlands.
That kind of thing interests people.’

‘People
know
about me?’
I asked, surprised.
I knew I’d been born in Nalhalla, but I’d just assumed that the people in the Free Kingdoms had forgotten.

‘Of course they do!
You’re a celebrity, Alcatraz – the Smedry who disappeared mysteriously as a child!
There have been
hundreds
of books written on you.
When it came out a few years back that you were being raised in the Hushlands, that only made things more interesting.
You think all those people over there are staring because of me?’