Alcatraz (38 page)

‘Are those Discerner’s Lenses?’
Bastille asked.

I nodded.

‘Where in the sands did you get a pair of those?’

‘Grandpa Smedry left them for me,’ I said.
‘Outside, along with a note.’
I frowned, glancing at the Curators.
‘Speaking of which, didn’t you say you’d return the writings you took from me?’

The creatures glanced at one another.
Then, one of them approached, betraying a sullen look.
The apparition bent down and set some things on the ground: copies of my tags, the wrapper that had been taken from me, and Grandpa Smedry’s note.
There were also copies of the money I’d given them – they were perfect replicas, except that they were colorless.

Great
, I thought.
But I probably didn’t need that anymore anyway
.
I stooped down to gather the things, which all glowed brightly, since they all had been created brand new.
Bastille took the note, looked it over with a frown, then handed it to Kaz.

‘So, your father really is down here somewhere,’ she said.

‘Looks like it.’

‘And .
.
.
the Curators claim he already gave up his soul.’

I fell silent.
They gave back my papers when I asked
, I thought,
and they keep trying to get us to agree to give away our souls, but don’t take them by force.
They’re bound by rules
.

I should have realized this earlier.
You see, everything is bound by rules.
Society has laws, as does nature, as do people.
Many of society’s rules have to do with expectations – which I’ll talk about later – and therefore can be bent.
A lot of nature’s laws, however are hard-set.

There are many more of these than you might expect.
In fact, there are even natural laws relating to this book, my favorite of which is known as the Law of Pure Awesomeness.
This law, of course, simply states that any book I write is awesome.
I’m sorry, but it’s a fact.

Who am I to argue with science?

‘You,’ I said, looking toward a Curator.
‘Your kind have laws, don’t they?’

The Curator paused.
‘Yes,’ it finally said.
‘Do you want to read them?
I can give you a book that explains them in detail.’

‘No,’ I said.
‘No, I don’t want to read about them.
I want to hear about them.
From you.’

The Curator frowned.

‘You have to tell me, don’t you?’
I said, smiling.

‘It is my privilege to do so,’ the creature said.
Then, it began to smile.
‘Of course, I am going to have to tell them to you in their original language.’

‘We are impressed that you speak ancient Greek,’ another said.
‘You are one who came to us prepared.
There are few that do that, these days.’

‘But,’ another whispered, ‘we doubt that you know how to speak Elder Faxdarian.’

Speak ancient Greek
.
.
., I thought, confused.
Then it occurred to me.
They don’t know about my Translator’s Lenses!
They think that because I understood them back at the beginning, I must have known the language
.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I said casually, swapping my Discerner’s Lenses back for my Translator’s Lenses.
‘Try me.’

‘Ha,’ one of them said in a very odd, strange language – it consisted mostly of spitting sounds.
Like always, the Translator’s Lenses let me hear the words in English.
‘The fool thinks he knows our language.’

‘Give him the rules, then,’ another hissed.

‘First rule,’ said the one in front of me.
‘If anyone enters our domain bearing writing, we may separate them from their group and demand the writing be given to us.
If they resist, we may take the writing, but we must return copies.
We may hold these back for one hour but, unless the items are requested, can keep them from then on.

‘Second rule, we may take the souls of those who enter, but we can do so only if the souls are offered freely and lawfully.
Souls may be coerced, but not forced.

‘Third rule, we may accept or reject a person’s request for a soul contract.
Once the contract is signed, we must provide the specific book requested, then refrain from taking their soul for the time specified in the contract.
This time may not be longer than ten hours.
If a person takes a book off its shelf without a contract, we may take their soul after ten seconds.’

I shivered.
Ten seconds or ten hours, it didn’t seem to matter much.
You still lost your soul.
Of course, in my experience, there’s really only one book in all of the world that is worth your soul to read – and you’re holding it right now.

I accept credit cards.

‘Fourth rule,’ the Curator continued.
‘We cannot directly harm those who enter.’

Hence the traps
, I thought.
Technically, when we trip those, we harm ourselves
.
I continued to stare blankly ahead, acting as if I didn’t understand a word they were saying.

‘Fifth rule, when a person gives up their soul and becomes a Curator, we must deliver up their possessions to their kin, should a member of the family come to the Library and request such possessions.

‘Sixth rule, and most important of them all.
We are the protectors of knowledge and truth.
We cannot lie, if asked a direct question.’

The Curator fell silent.

‘That it?’
I asked.

If you’ve never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise .
.
.
okay, I’m going to assume that you’ve never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise.
Suffice it to say that the experience was quite amusing, in a creepy sort of way.

‘He speaks our language!’
one hissed.

‘Impossible,’ another said.
‘Nobody outside the Library knows it.’

‘Could he be Tharandes?’

‘He would have died millennia ago!’

Bastille and Kaz were watching me.
I winked at them.

‘Translator’s Lenses,’ one of the Curators suddenly hissed.
‘See!’

‘Impossible,’ another said.
‘Nobody could have gathered the Sands of Rashid.’

‘But he has .
.
.,’ said a third.
‘Yes, they must be Lenses of Rashid!’

The three ghosts looked even more amazed than they had before.

‘What’s happening?’
Bastille whispered.

‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’

Based on the Curators’ own rules, there was one way to discover if my father really had come to the Library of Alexandria and given up his soul.
‘I am the son of Attica Smedry,’ I said to the group of creatures.
‘I’ve come here for his personal effects.
Your own laws say you must provide them to me.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘We cannot,’ one of the Curators finally said.

I sighed in relief.
If my father had come to the Library, then he hadn’t given up his soul.
The Curators didn’t have his personal items.

‘We cannot,’ the Curator continued, skull teeth beginning to twist upward in an evil smile.
‘Because we have already given them away!’

I felt a stab of shock.
No.
It can’t be
!
‘I don’t believe you,’ I whispered.

‘We cannot lie,’ another said.
‘Your father came to us, and he sold his soul to us.
He only wanted three minutes to read the book, and then he was taken to become one of us.
His personal items have already been claimed – someone did so this very day.’

‘Who?’
I demanded.
‘Who claimed them?
My grandfather?’

‘No,’ the Curator said, smile deepening.
‘They were claimed by Shasta Smedry.
Your mother.’

12

I
would like to apologize for the introduction to the last chapter.
It occurs to me that this book, while random at times, really shouldn’t waste its time on anarchist farm animals, whether or not they have bazookas.
It’s just plain silly, and since I abhor silliness, I would like to ask you to do me a favor.

Flip back two chapters, where the introduction should now contain the bunny paragraphs (since you cut them out of chapter Eleven and pasted them in chapter Ten instead).
Cut those paragraphs out again, then go find a book by Jane Austen and paste them in there instead.
The paragraphs will be much happier there, as Jane was quite fond of bunnies and bazookas, or so I’m told.
It has to do with being a proper young lady living in the nineteenth century.
But that’s another story entirely.

I walked, head bowed, watching the ground in front of us for trip wires.
I wore the Discerner’s Lenses again, the Translator’s Lenses stowed carefully in their pocket.

I was beginning to accept that my father – a man I’d never met, but whom I’d traveled halfway across the world to find – might be dead.
Or worse than dead.
If the Curators were telling the truth, Attica’s soul had been ripped away from him, then used to fuel the creation of another twisted Curator of Alexandria.
I would never know him, never meet him.
My father was no more.

Equally disturbing was the knowledge that my mother was somewhere in these catacombs.
Though I’d always known her as Ms.
Fletcher, her actual name was Shasta.
(Like many Librarians, she was named after a mountain.)

Ms.
Fletcher – or Shasta, or whatever her name was – had worked as my personal caseworker during my years as a foster child in the Hushlands.
She’d always treated me harshly, never giving me a hint that she was, in truth, my blood mother.
Did she have something to do with the twisted, half-human Scrivener’s Bone that was hunting me?
How had she known about my father’s trip to Alexandria?
And what would she do if she found me here?

Something glowed on the ground in front of us, slightly brighter than the stones around it.

‘Stop,’ I said, causing Bastille and Kaz to freeze.
‘Trip wire, right there.’

Bastille knelt down.
‘So there is,’ she said, sounding impressed.

We carefully made our way over it, then continued on.
During our last hour of walking, we’d left hallways filled with scrolls behind.
More and more frequently, we were passing hallways filled with bookshelves.
These books were still and musty, with cracking leather-bound covers, but they were obviously newer than the scrolls.

Every book ever written.
Was there, somewhere in here, a room filled with paperback romance novels?
The thought was amusing to me, but I wasn’t sure why.
The curators claimed to collect knowledge.
It didn’t matter to them what kinds of stories or facts the books contained – they would gather it all, store it, and keep it safe.
Until someone wanted to trade their soul for it.

I felt very sorry for the person who was tricked into giving up their soul for a trashy romance novel.

We kept moving.
Theoretically Kaz’s Talent was leading us toward Australia, but it seemed to me like we were just walking aimlessly.
Considering the nature of his Talent, that was probably a good sign.

‘Kaz,’ I said.
‘Did you know my mother?’

The short man eyed me.
‘Sure did.
She was .
.
.
well, is .
.
.
my sister-in-law.’

‘They never divorced?’

Kaz shook his head.
‘I’m not sure what happened – they had a falling-out, obviously.
Your father gave you away to be cared for in foster homes, and your mother took up position watching over you.’
He paused, then shook his head.
‘We were all there at your naming, Al.
That was the day when your father pronounced the Sands of Rashid upon you as your inheritance.
We’re still not sure how he got them to you at the right time, in the right place.’

‘Oracle’s Lenses’ I said.

‘He has a pair of
those
?’

I nodded.

‘Walnuts!
The prophets in Ventat are supposed to have the only pair in existence.
I wonder where Attica found some.’

I shrugged.
‘He mentioned them in the letter he sent me.’

Kaz nodded thoughtfully.
‘Well, your father disappeared just a few days after pronouncing your blessing, so I guess there just wasn’t time for a divorce.
Your mother could ask for one, but she really has no motivation to do so.
After all, she’d lose her Talent.’

‘
What?
’

‘Her Talent, Al,’ Kaz said.
‘She’s a Smedry now.’

‘Only by marriage.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Kaz said.
‘The spouse of a Smedry gains their husband’s or wife’s same Talent as soon as the marriage is official.’

I’d assumed that Talents were genetic – that they were passed on from parents to children, kind of the same way that skin color or hair color was.
But this meant they were something different.
That seemed important.

That does make some things make more sense
, I thought.
Grandpa Smedry said he’d worried that my mother had only married my father for his Talent
.
I’d assumed that she’d been enthralled with the Talent, much as someone might marry a rock star for his guitar skills.
However, that didn’t sound like my mother.

She’d wanted a Talent.
‘So, my mother’s Talent is .
.
.’

‘Losing things,’ Kaz said.
‘Just like your father’s.’
He smiled, eyes twinkling.
‘I don’t think she’s ever figured out how to use it properly.
She’s a Librarian – she believes in order, lists, and catalogues.
To use a Talent, you just have to be able to let yourself be out of control for a while.’

I nodded.
‘What did you think?
When he married her, I mean.’

‘I thought he was an idiot,’ Kaz said.
‘And I told him so, as is the solemn duty of younger brothers.
He married her anyway, the stubborn hazelnut.’

About what I expected
, I thought.

‘But, Attica seemed to love her,’ Kaz continued with a sigh.
‘And, to be perfectly honest, she wasn’t as bad as many Librarians.
For a while, it seemed like they might actually make things work.
Then .
.
.
it fell apart.
Right around the time you were born.’

I frowned.
‘But, she was a Librarian agent all along, right?
She just wanted to get Father’s Talent.’

‘Some still think that’s the case.
She really did seem to care for him, though.
I .
.
.
well, I just don’t know.’

‘She
had
to be faking,’ I said stubbornly.

‘If you say so,’ Kaz said.
‘I think you may be letting your preconceptions cloud your thinking.’

I shook my head.
‘No.
I don’t do that.’

‘Oh, you don’t?’
Kaz said, amused.
‘Well then, let’s try something.
Why don’t you tell me about your grandfather; pretend I don’t know anything about him, and you want to describe him to me.’

‘Okay,’ I said slowly.
‘Grandpa Smedry is a brilliant Oculator who is a little bit zany, but who is one of the Free Kingdom’s most important figures.
He has the Talent to arrive late to things.’

‘Great,’ Kaz said.
‘Now tell me about Bastille.’

I eyed her, and she shot me a threatening glance.
‘Uh, Bastille is a Crystin.
I think that’s about all I can say without her throwing something at me.’

‘Good enough.
Australia?’

I shrugged.
‘She seems a bit scatterbrained, but is a good person.
She’s an Oculator and has a Smedry Talent.’

‘Okay,’ Kaz said.
‘Now talk about me.’

‘Well, you’re a short person who—’

‘Stop,’ Kaz said.

I did so, shooting him a questioning glance.

‘Why is it,’ Kaz said, ‘that with the others, the first thing you described about them was their job or their personality?
Yet, with me, the first thing you mentioned was my height?’

‘I .
.
.
uh .
.
.’

Kaz laughed.
‘I’m not trying to trap you, kid.
But, maybe you see why I get so annoyed sometimes.
The trouble with being different is that people start defining you by
what
you are instead of by
who
you are.’

I fell silent.

‘Your mother is a Librarian,’ Kaz said.
‘Because of that, we tend to think of her as a Librarian first, and a person second.
Our knowledge of her as a Librarian clouds everything else.’

‘She’s not a good person, Kaz,’ I said.
‘She offered to sell me to a Dark Oculator.’

‘Did she?’
Kaz asked.
‘What exactly did she say?’

I thought back to the time when Bastille, Sing, and I had been hiding in the library, listening to Ms.
Fletcher speak with Blackburn.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘she didn’t say anything.
It was the Dark Oculator who said something like, “You’d sell the boy too, wouldn’t you?
You impress me.”
And she just shrugged or nodded or something.’

‘So,’ Kaz said, ‘she
didn’t
offer to sell you out.’

‘She didn’t contradict Blackburn.’

Kaz shook his head.
‘Shasta has her own agenda, kid.
I don’t think any of us can presume to understand exactly what she’s up to.
Your father saw something in her.
I still think he’s a fool for marrying her, but for a Librarian, she wasn’t too bad.’

I wasn’t convinced.
My bias against Librarians wasn’t the
only
thing making me distrust Shasta.
She had consistently berated me as a child, saying I was worthless.
(I now know she had been trying to get me to stop using my Talent, for fear it would expose me to those who were searching for the Sands.) Either way, she’d been my mother all that time, and she hadn’t ever given me even a hint of confirmation.

Though .
.
.
she
had
stayed with me, always, watching over me.

I pushed that thought aside.
She didn’t deserve credit for that – she’d just been hoping for the chance to grab the sands of Rashid.
The very day they arrived, she showed up and swiped them.

‘.
.
.
don’t know, Kaz,’ Bastille was saying.
‘
I
think that the main reason people think of your height first is because of that ridiculous List of yours.’

‘My List is
not
ridiculous,’ Kaz said with a huff.
‘It’s very scientific.’

‘Oh?’
Bastille asked.
‘Didn’t you claim that “short people are better because it takes them longer to walk places, therefore they get more exercise”?’

‘That one has been clinically proven.’
Kaz said, pointing at her.

‘It does seem a bit of a stretch,’ I said, smiling.

‘You forget Reason number one,’ he said.
‘“Don’t argue with the short person.”
He’s always right.’

Bastille snorted.
‘It’s a good thing you don’t claim short people are more humble.’

Kaz fell silent.
‘That’s Reason two thirty-six,’ he muttered quietly.
‘I just haven’t mentioned that one yet.’

Bastille shot me a glance through her sunglasses, and I could tell she was rolling her eyes.
However, even though I didn’t believe Kaz about my mother, I thought his comments about how to treat people were valid.