Alcatraz (39 page)

Who we are – meaning, the person we become by doing things – which – incidentally – is actually a function of who we are – for example, I’ve become an Oculator – which is quite fun – by doing things that relate to Oculators – not who we can be – is more important – actually – than what we look like.

For instance, the fact that I use lots of dashes in my writing is part of what makes me, me.
I’d rather be known by this – since it’s cool – than by the fact that I have a big nose.
Which I don’t.
Why are you looking at me like that?

‘Wait!’
I said, holding out a hand.

Bastille froze.

‘Trip wire,’ I said, heart pounding.
Her foot hovered just a few inches from it.

She backed away, and Kaz squatted down.
‘Well done, kid.
It’s a good thing you have those Lenses.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, taking them off and cleaning them.
‘I guess.’
I still wished I had a weapon instead of another pair of Lenses that showed me random stuff.
Wouldn’t a sword have been equally useful?

Of course, I might think that just because I really like swords.
Give me the chance, and I’d probably cut my wedding cake with one.

I did have to admit, though, that I’d made pretty good use of the Discerner’s Lenses.
Maybe I’d discounted them too quickly at first.
I cleaned my Lenses, feeling an odd sensation from inside.
It was slight, a little like indigestion, but less foody.

I shook my head and put the Discerner’s Lenses back on, then guided the other two over the trip wire.
As I did, I noticed something interesting.
‘There’s a second trip wire just a few feet ahead.’

‘They’re getting more clever,’ Bastille said.
‘They figured we’d see this one, but hoped we’d feel safe once we passed it – then go right on and trip the second.’

I nodded, glancing at the Curators floating behind.
I noticed that the odd sensation was getting stronger.
It was hard to explain.
It wasn’t really a sick feeling.
More like a slight itch on my emotions.

‘We need to find Australia quickly, Kaz,’ Bastille said.
‘Is it supposed to take this long?’

‘Never can tell, with the Talent,’ Kaz said.
‘Australia might not actually be lost.
If that’s the case, it will take me a lot longer to find her than it took me to find you.
Like I mentioned earlier, if I don’t know where to go, then my Talent can’t really take me there.’

Bastille didn’t seem pleased to hear this.
‘Maybe we should start looking for the Old Smedry instead.’

‘If I know my father, he’s not lost,’ Kaz said, rubbing his chin.
‘He’ll be even more difficult to find.’

I was barely paying attention to them.
The itch was still there.
It wasn’t the same feeling that I got from the hunter that was chasing me, but it was similar.
.
.
.

‘So, do we just keep going?’
Bastille asked.

‘I guess so,’ Kaz said.

‘No,’ I said suddenly, looking at them.
‘Kaz, turn off your Talent.’

Bastille looked at me, frowning.
‘What is it?’

‘Someone’s using a Lens nearby.’

‘The Scrivener’s Bone chasing us?’

I shook my head.
‘This is a regular Lens, not a twisted one like he uses.
It means there is an Oculator close to us.’
I paused, then pointed.
‘That way.’

Bastille shared a look with Kaz.
‘Let’s go check it out,’ she said.

13

I
have to apologize for the introduction to that last chapter.
It was far too apologetic.
There’s been too much apologizing going on in this book.
I’m sorry.
I want to prove to you that I’m a liar, not a wimp.

The thing is, you never know who is going to be reading your books.
I’ve tried to write this one for members of both the Hushlands and the Free Kingdoms, and that’s tough enough.
However, even within the Hushlands, the variety of people who could pick this book up is incredible.

You could be a young boy, wanting to read an adventure story.
You could be a young girl, wanting to investigate the truth of the Librarian Conspiracy.
You might be a mother, reading this book because you’ve heard that so many of your kids are reading it.
Or you could be a serial killer who specializes in reading books, then seeking out the authors and murdering them in horrible ways.

(If you happen to fall into that last category, you should know that my name isn’t really Alcatraz Smedry, nor is it Brandon Sanderson.
My name is really Garth Nix, and you can find me in Australia.
Oh, and I insulted your mother once.
What’re you going to do about it, huh?)

Anyway it’s very difficult to relate this story to everyone who might be reading my book.
So, I’ve decided not to try.
Instead, I’ll just say something that makes no sense to anyone: Flagwat the happy beansprout.

Confusion, after all, is the
true
universal language.

‘The feeling is coming from that direction,’ I said, pointing.
Unfortunately, ‘that direction’ happened to be straight through a wall full of books.

‘So .
.
.
one of the books is an Oculator?’
Kaz asked.

I rolled my eyes.

He chuckled.
‘I understood what you meant.
Stop acting like Bastille.
Obviously we have to find a way around.
There must be another hallway on the other side.’

I nodded, but .
.
.
the Lens felt
close
.
We’d walked down a few rows already, coming to this point, and I felt like it was just on the other side of the wall.

I took off my Discerner’s Lenses, putting on my Oculator’s Lenses instead.
One of their main functions was to reveal Oculatory power, and they made the entire wall glow with a bright white light.
I stumbled back, shocked by the powerful illumination.

‘Glowing, eh?’
Bastille asked, walking up to me.

I nodded.

‘That’s strange,’ she said.
‘It takes time for an area to charge with Oculatory power.
The Lens you sensed must have been here for a while if it has started making things around it glow.’

‘What are you implying?’
I asked.

She shook her head.
‘I’m not sure.
When you first spoke, I assumed we were close to Grandpa Smedry, since he’s the only other Oculator we know to be down here.
Except for, well, your father, and he .
.
.’

I didn’t want to think about that.
‘It’s probably not Grandpa.
He came down here only a little while before we did.’

‘What, then?’
Bastille asked.

I took off my Oculator’s Lenses, then put on my Discerner’s Lenses again.
I walked carefully along the wall full of books, inspecting the brickwork.

I didn’t have to look far before I discovered that one section of the wall was much older than all of the others.
‘Something is back there,’ I said.
‘I think there might be a secret passage or something.’

‘How do we trigger it?’
Bastille asked.
‘Pull one of the books?’

‘I guess.’

One of the ever-present Curators floated closer.
‘Yes,’ it said.
‘Pull one of the books.
Take it.’

I paused, hand halfway up to the shelf.
‘I’m not going to take it; I’ll just shake it a bit.’

‘Try it,’ the Curator whispered.
‘Whether you pick up a book, or whether it falls off accidentally, it does not matter.
Move even one of the books a few inches off its shelf, and your soul is ours.’

I lowered my hand.
The Curator seemed too eager to scare me away from trying to move one of the books.
It seems like they don’t want me to find out what is behind there
.

I inspected the bookshelf.
There was enough space to the side of it – between it and the next bookshelf over – that I could reach through and touch the back wall.
I took a deep breath, leaning up against the bookcase, careful to keep from touching any of the books.

‘Alcatraz .
.
.,’ Bastille said with concern.

I nodded, careful as I pressed my hand against the back wall.
If I break this, and the bookshelf falls over, it will cost me my soul
.

My Discerner’s Lenses told me that this portion of the brick wall behind the bookshelf was older than even the rest of the walls and floor.
Whatever was behind that wall had been there even before the Curators moved into the area.

I released my power.

The wall crumbled, bricks breaking free of their mortar.
I anxiously tried to hold the bookcase steady as the wall collapsed behind it.
Kaz rushed forward, grabbing it on the other side, and Bastille pressed her hands against the books that were teetering slightly on their shelves.
Apparently, none of this was enough to give the Curators leave to take our souls, because they watched with an air of petulance as not a single book slid out.

I wiped my brow.
The entire wall had fallen away, and there
was
some kind of room back there.

‘That was rash, Alcatraz,’ Bastille said, folding her arms.

‘He’s a true Smedry!’
Kaz said, laughing.

I glanced at the two of them, suddenly embarrassed.
‘Someone had to break down that wall.
It’s the only way we were going to get through.’

Bastille shrugged.
‘You complain about having to make decisions, then you make one like that without even asking.
Do you want to be in charge or not?’

‘Uh .
.
.
Well .
.
.
I, that is .
.
.’

‘Brilliant,’ she said, peeking into the hole between the bookcases.
‘Very inspiring.
Kaz, do you think we can get through?’

Kaz was prying a lamp off the wall.
‘Sure we can.
Though we may have to move that bookcase.’

Bastille eyed it and then, sighing, helped me ease the bookcase back from the wall just a few inches.
We didn’t, fortunately, lose any books – or any souls – in the process.
Once finished, Kaz was able to slip through the opening.

‘Wow!’
he said.

Bastille, standing on that side of the bookcase, went next.
I, therefore, had to go last – which I found rather unfair, considering that I’d been the one to discover the place.
However, all feelings of annoyance vanished as I stepped into the chamber.

It was a tomb.

I’d seen enough movies about wisecracking archaeologists to know what an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb looked like.
A massive sarcophagus sat in the center, and there were delicate golden pillars spaced around it.
Mounds of wealth were heaped in the corners – coins, lamps, statues of animals.
The floor itself seemed to be of pure gold.

So, I did what anyone would do if he’d discovered an ancient Egyptian tomb.
I yelped for joy, then rushed directly over to the nearest pile of gold and reached for a handful.

‘Alcatraz, wait!’
Bastille said, grabbing my arm with a burst of Crystin speed.

‘What?’
I asked in annoyance.
‘You’re not going to give me some kind of nonsense about grave robbing or curses, are you?’

‘Shattering Glass, no,’ Bastille said.
‘But look – those coins have words on them.’

I glanced to the side and noticed that she was right.
Each coin was stamped with a foreign kind of character that wasn’t Egyptian, as far as I could tell.
‘So?’
I asked.
‘What does it matter if .
.
.’

I trailed off, then glanced at the three Curators, who floated in through the wall in a fittingly ghostly manner.

‘Curators,’ I said.
‘Do these coins count as books?’

‘They are written,’ one said.
‘Paper, cloth, or metal, it matters not.’

‘You can check one out, if you wish,’ another whispered, floating up to me.

I shivered, then glanced at Bastille.
‘You just saved my life,’ I said, feeling numb.

She shrugged.
‘I’m a Crystin.
That’s what we do.’
However, she did seem to walk a little bit more confidently as she joined Kaz, who was inspecting the sarcophagus.

You should have realized that I wouldn’t be able to have any of the coins.
That’s what happens in stories like this.
Characters in books find heaps of gold or hidden treasure all over the place – but then, of course, they never get to spend a penny of it.
Instead, they either

Stupid orphanages.

Anyway, it is very common for authors to do things like this to the people in their stories.
Why?
Well, we will
claim
it’s because we want to teach the reader that the real wealth is friendship, or caring, or something stupid like that.
In reality we’re just mean people.
We like to torment our readers, and that translates to tormenting our characters.
After all, there is only one thing more frustrating than finding a pile of gold, then having it snatched away from you.

And that’s being told that at least you learned something from the experience.

I sighed, leaving the coins behind.

‘Oh, don’t mope, Alcatraz,’ Bastille said, waving indifferently toward another corner of the room.
‘Just take some of those gold bars, instead.
They don’t seem to have anything written on them.’

I turned and smacked my forehead, suddenly realizing that I
wasn’t
in a fictional story.
This was an autobiography and was completely real – which meant that the ‘lesson’ I could learn from it all is that grave robbing is way cool.

‘Good idea!’
I said.
‘Curators, do those bars count as books?’

The ghosts floated sullenly, one shooting an angry glare at Bastille.
‘No,’ it finally said.

I smiled, then proceeded to stuff a few bars in my pocket, then a few more in Bastille’s pack.
In case you were wondering, yes.
Gold really is as heavy as they say.
And it’s totally worth carrying anyway.

‘Don’t you guys want any of this?’
I asked, putting another bar in my jacket pocket.

Kaz shrugged.
‘You and I are Smedries, Alcatraz.
We’re friends to kings, counselors to emperors, defenders of the Free Kingdoms.
Our family is incredibly wealthy, and we can pretty much have anything we want.
I mean, that silimatic dragon we crashed was probably worth more money than most people would ever be able to spend in a lifetime.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘And I kind of took a vow of poverty,’ Bastille said, grimacing.

That was new.
‘Really?’

She nodded.
‘If I brought some of that gold, it would just end up going to the Knights of Crystallia – and I’m a little annoyed with them right now.’

I stuffed a few bars in my pocket for her anyway.

‘Alcatraz, come look at this,’ Kaz said.

I reluctantly left the rest of the gold behind, clinking my way over to the other two.
They stood a distance away from the sarcophagus, not approaching.
‘What’s wrong?’