Alcatraz (46 page)

Bastille snorted, joining us, holding one of her arms close to her side.
‘That’s real inspiring, Smedry.’

‘You’re the one who stopped following the plan,’ I said.

‘What?
Kiliman was faster than you.
How exactly were you planning to keep him from chasing you down as you ran?’

‘I’m .
.
.
not sure,’ I admitted.

Kaz just laughed.
‘What happened to Kiliman anyway?’

I pointed toward the Curator with half of a skull.
‘He’s doing a little bit of soul-searching,’ I said.
‘You could say that watching over these books is his
soul
responsibility now.
He’ll probably enjoy the
soul
-itary lifestyle.’

‘Can I hit him?’
Bastille asked flatly.

I smiled, then noticed something on the ground.
I picked it up – a single, yellow Lens.

‘What’s that?’

‘Tracker’s Lens,’ I said.
‘Kiliman’s.
It had been in the pouch with Draulin’s Fleshstone.’

‘My mother,’ Bastille said.
‘How is she?’

‘I’m fine,’ Draulin’s voice said.
We spun to find her standing beside a sheepish Australia in the doorway.

‘Fine’ was a stretch – Draulin still looked pale, like someone who had been sick for far too long.
Yet, her step was steady as she walked into the room and joined us.

‘Lord Smedry,’ she said, going down on one knee.
‘I’ve failed you.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said.

‘The Librarian of the Scrivener’s Bones captured me,’ she said.
‘I was caught in a trap, tied up, and he was able to take me without any trouble.
I have shamed my order.’

I rolled my eyes.
‘The rest of us got caught in Curator traps too.
We were just lucky enough to wiggle out of them before Kiliman found us.’

Draulin still bowed her head.
On the back of her neck, I caught sight of a sparkling crystal – her Fleshstone, replaced.

‘Get up and stop apologizing,’ I said.
‘I’m serious.
You did well.
You forced a confrontation with Kiliman, and we won that confrontation.
So, consider yourself part of our victory.’

Draulin stood up, though she didn’t appear appeased.
She fell into her traditional parade-rest stance, looking straight ahead.
‘As you wish, Lord Smedry.’

‘Mother,’ Bastille said.

Draulin looked down.

‘Here,’ Bastille said, holding up the Crystin blade.

I blinked in shock.
For some reason, I’d been expecting Bastille to keep that.

Draulin hesitated for a moment, then took the sword.

‘Thank you,’ she said, then sheathed it on her back.
‘What are your plans now, Lord Smedry?’

‘I’m .
.
.
not sure yet,’ I said.

‘Then I will set up a perimeter around this room.’
Draulin bowed to me, then walked over to the entrance and took up a guard position.
Bastille moved toward the other entrance, but I grabbed her arm.

‘That woman should be begging for your forgiveness.’

‘Why?’
Bastille asked.

‘You’re in so much trouble because you lost your sword,’ I said.
‘Well, Draulin didn’t do much better now, did she?’

‘But she got hers back.’

‘So?’

‘So, she didn’t break it.’

‘Only because of us.’

‘No,’ Bastille said, ‘because of
you
, Alcatraz.
Kiliman defeated me just like the Alivened in the downtown Library did.
You had to save me both times.’

‘I .
.
.’

Bastille carefully removed my hand from her arm.
‘I appreciate it, Smedry.
I really do.
I’d be dead several times over if it wasn’t for you.’

With that, she walked away.
Never before had a thank-you seemed so despondent to my ears.

Things aren’t going to get fixed that easily
, I thought.
Bastille still considers herself a failure
.

We’re going to have to do something about that
.

‘You going to destroy that, kid?’
Kaz asked.

I glanced down, realizing that I still had Kiliman’s Tracker’s Lens in my fingers.

‘It’s
very
Dark Oculary,’ Kaz said, rubbing his chin.
‘Blood-forged Lenses are bad business.’

‘We
should
destroy it, then,’ I said.
‘At least turn it over to someone who knows what to do with it.
I .
.
.’

I trailed off.
(Obviously.)

‘What?’
Kaz asked.

I didn’t answer.
I’d caught something through the Tracker’s Lens.
I held it up to my eye and was surprised to see footprints on the ground.
There were lots of them, of course.
Mine, Bastille’s, even Kiliman’s – though those were fading quickly, since I didn’t know him well.
More important, however, I saw three sets of footprints that were very distinct.
All led toward a small, inconspicuous door on the far side of the room.

One set of footprints was Grandpa Smedry’s.
Another set of yellowish black ones belonged to my mother.
The final set, a blazing red-white, was undoubtedly that of my father.
All went through the doorway, but there were no sets leading back out.

‘Hey,’ I said, turning to the nearest Curator.
‘What’s through that door?’

‘That’s where we keep the possessions of those who have been turned into Curators,’ the creature said in a raspy voice.
Indeed, I saw several Curators cleaning up the remnants of Kiliman’s transformation – the bits of metal and the clothing he had been wearing.

I lowered the Tracker’s Lens.
‘Come on,’ I said to the others.
‘We almost forgot the reason why we came here in the first place.’

‘And what was that reason again?’
Kaz asked.

I pointed at the door.
‘To find out what’s on the other side of that.’

20

H
angook Mal Malha GiMa Ship Shio.

Expectations.
They are among the most important things in all of existence.
(Which is amusing, because, being abstract concepts, you could argue that they don’t even ‘exist’ at all.)

Everything we do, everything we experience and everything we say is clouded by our expectations.
We go to school or work in the mornings because we expect that it will be rewarding.
(Or, at least, we expect that if we don’t, we’ll get in trouble.)

We build friendships based on expectations.
We expect our friends to act in a certain way, and then we act as they expect us to.
Indeed, the very fact that we get up in the mornings shows that we expect the sun to rise, the world to keep spinning, and our shoes to fit, just like they all did the day before.

People have real trouble when you upset their expectations.
For instance, you likely didn’t expect me to begin this chapter writing in Korean.
Though, after the bunny-bazooka story, one begins to wonder how you can possibly maintain any expectations about this book at all.

And that, my friends, is the point.

Half of you reading this book live in the Hushlands.
I was a Hushlander myself, once, and I am not so naïve as to assume that you all believe my story is true.
You probably read my first book, thought it was fun.
You’re reading this one not because you believe its text, but because you
expected
another fun story.

Expectations.
We rely on them.
That’s why so many Hushlanders have trouble believing the Free Kingdoms and the Librarian conspiracy.
You don’t
expect
to wake up and discover that everything you know about history, geography, and politics is wrong.

So, perhaps you can begin to see why I’ve included some of the things I have.
Bunnies with bazookas, ships that get repaired (more on that later), faces made of numbers, editorials from short people about how we regard the world, and a lesson on shoes and fish.
All of these examples try to prove that you need to have an open mind.
Because not everything you believe is true, and not everything you expect to happen will.

Maybe this book will mean nothing to you.
Maybe my tale of demonic Curators and magical Lenses will pass you by as pure silliness, to be read but then forgotten.
Perhaps because this story deals with people who are far away – and, perhaps, not even real at all – you will assume it doesn’t relate to you.

I hope not.
Because, you see, I have expectations too, and they whisper to me that you’ll understand.

We found a long hallway on the other side of the door.
At the end of that hallway was another door, and on the other side of that door was a small chamber.

It had one occupant.
He sat on a dusty crate, staring down at the ground in front of him.
He was not locked in.
He simply seemed to have been sitting there, thinking.

And crying.

‘Grandpa Smedry?’
I asked.

Leavenworth Smedry, Oculator Dramatus, friend of kings and potentates, looked up.
It had only been a few days since I’d last seen him, but it felt like so much longer.
He smiled at me, eyes sorrowful.

‘Alcatraz, lad,’ he said.
‘Huddling Hales, you
did
follow me!’

I rushed forward, grabbing him in an embrace.
Kaz and Australia followed me in, Bastille and Draulin taking up positions by the door.

‘Hey, Pop,’ Kaz said, raising a hand.

‘Kazan!’
Grandpa Smedry said.
‘Well, well.
Been corrupting your nephew, I assume?’

Kaz shrugged.
‘Somebody needs to.’

Grandpa Smedry smiled, but there was something .
.
.
sorrowful about even that expression.
He wasn’t his usual lively self.
Even the little tufts of hair behind his ears seemed less perky.

‘Grandpa, what is it?’
I asked.

‘Oh, nothing, lad,’ Grandpa Smedry said, hand on my shoulder.
‘I .
.
.
really should have been done grieving by now.
I mean, your father has been gone for thirteen years!
I still kept hope, all that time.
I thought for sure we’d find him here.
I arrived too late, it seems.’

‘What do you mean?’
I asked.

‘Oh, I didn’t show you, did I?’
He handed something out to me.
A note.
‘I found this in the room.
Your mother had already been here, it seems, and collected Attica’s belongings.
Clever one, that Shasta.
Always a step ahead of me, even without my Talent interfering.
She was in and out of the Library before we even arrived.
Yet, she left this behind.
I wonder why.’

I looked down, reading the note.

Old man
, it said.

I assume you got my letter telling you that Attica was coming to the Library of Alexandria.
By now you probably realize that we were both too late to stop him from doing something foolish.
He always was an idiot.

I’ve confirmed that he gave up his soul, but for what purpose, I cannot fathom.
Those blasted Curators won’t tell me anything useful.
I’ve taken his possessions.
It’s my right, whatever you may claim, as his wife.

I know you don’t care for me.
I return the sentiment.
I am sad to see Attica finally gone, though.
He shouldn’t have had to die in such a silly way.

The Librarians now have the tools we need to defeat you.
It’s a shame we couldn’t come to an agreement.
I don’t care if you believe me about Attica or not.
I thought I should leave this note.
I owe him that much.

Shasta Smedry

I looked up from the note, frustrated.

There were still tears in Grandpa Smedry’s eyes, and he wasn’t looking at me.
He just stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.
‘Yes, I should have grieved long ago.
I’m late to that, it appears.
Late indeed .
.
.’

Kaz read over my shoulder.
‘Nutmeg!’
he swore, pointing at the note.
‘We don’t believe this, do we?
Shasta’s a lying Librarian rat!’

‘She’s not lying, Kazan,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘At least not about your brother.
The Curators confirmed it, and they cannot lie.
Attica has become one of them.’

Nobody objected to Grandpa Smedry’s assertion.
It was the truth.
I could feel it.
With the Tracker’s Lens, I could even see the place where my father’s tracks ended.
My mother’s tracks, however, left by a different door.

The ground at my feet began to crack, my Talent sensing my frustration, and I felt like pounding on something.
We’d come all this way, just to be turned away at the end.
Why?
Why had my father done something so foolish?

‘He always was too curious for his own good,’ Kaz said softly, laying a hand on Grandpa Smedry’s shoulder.
‘I told him it would lead him to a bad end.’

Grandpa Smedry nodded.
‘Well, he has the knowledge he always wanted.
He can read book upon book, learn anything he wants.’

With that, he stood.
We joined him, making our way out of the hallway.
We walked through the central room and out into the stacks beyond, trailed by a couple of Curators who were – undoubtedly – hoping we’d make one last-minute mistake and lose our souls.

I sighed, then turned and gave one final glance at the place where my father had ended his life.
There, above the doorway, I saw the scribbles.
The ones scratched into the stone.
I frowned, then pulled out the Translator’s Lenses and put them on.
The message was simple, only one sentence long.

I am not an idiot
.

I blinked.
Grandpa Smedry and Kaz were speaking softly about my father and his foolishness.

I am not an idiot
.

What would prompt a person to give up his soul?
Was unlimited knowledge really worth that?
Knowledge that you couldn’t use?
Couldn’t share?
Unless .
.
.

I froze, causing the others to stop.
I looked right at a Curator.
‘What happens when you write something down while you’re in the Library?’

The creature seemed confused.
‘We take the writing from you and copy it.
Then, we return the copy to you an hour later.’

‘And if you were to write something right before you gave up your soul?’
I asked.
‘What if you were a Curator by the time the copy came back?’

The Curator glanced away.

‘You cannot lie!’
I said, pointing.

‘I can choose not to speak.’

‘Not if property must be returned,’ I said, still pointing.
‘If my father wrote something before he was taken, then you wouldn’t have had to give it to my mother unless she knew to ask for it.
You
do
have to return it if I demand it.
And I do.
Give it to me.’

The Curator hissed.
Then, all of those standing around us hissed.
I hissed back at them.

I’m .
.
.
uh, not sure why I did that.

Finally, a Curator floated forward, carrying a slip of paper in its translucent hand.
‘This doesn’t count as taking one of your books, does it?’
I asked hesitantly.

‘This is not ours,’ the Curator said, throwing the paper at my feet.

As the others stood around me, confused, I snatched up the paper and read it.
It wasn’t what I’d been expecting.

It’s so simple
, the paper read.

The Curators are, like most things in this world, bound by laws.
They are strange laws, but they are strong laws.

The trick is to not own your own soul when you sign the contract.
So, I bequeath my soul to my son, Alcatraz Smedry.
I sign it away to him.
He is its true owner.

I looked up.

‘What is it, lad?’
Grandpa Smedry asked.

‘What would you do, Grandpa?’
I asked.
‘If you were going to give up your soul not for a specific book, but because you wanted access to the Library’s entire contents.
What book would you ask for?’

Grandpa Smedry shrugged.
‘Vague Volskies, lad, I don’t know!
If you’re just giving up your soul so that you can read the other books in the Library, it wouldn’t matter which book you picked as the first, would it?’

‘Actually, it would,’ I whispered.
‘The Library contains all the knowledge humans have ever known.’

‘So?’
Bastille asked.

‘So, it contains the solutions to every problem.
I know what
I’d
ask for.’
I looked straight at the Curators.
‘I’d ask for the book that explained how to get my soul back after I’d given it to the Curators!’

There was a moment of stunned silence.
The Curators suddenly began floating away from us.

‘Curators!’
I yelled.
‘This note bequeaths the soul of Attica Smedry to me!
You have taken it unlawfully, and I demand it back!’

The creatures froze, then they began to scream in a howling, despairing cry.

One of them suddenly spun and threw back its hood, the fires in its eyes puffing out, replaced by human eyeballs.
The skull bulged, growing the flesh of a hawk-faced, noble-looking man.

He tossed aside his robe, wearing a tuxedo underneath.
‘Aha!’
he said.
‘I
knew
you’d figure it out, son!’
The man turned, pointing at the hovering Curators.
‘Thank you kindly for the time you let me spend rummaging through your books, you old spooks!
I beat you.
I told you I would!’