Alcatraz (50 page)

Draulin stood at the back of the room, and – for once – wasn’t standing in a stiff ‘parade rest’ stance.
Instead, she was polishing her enormous crystal sword.
Bastille suspected her mother had been the one to set her up, as Draulin was one of the knights who gave out assignments.
But why would she send her own daughter on a mission that was obviously too hard for her?

‘Something is wrong,’ Bastille said.

‘You mean, aside from the fact that our flying hawk mysteriously exploded?’

She waved an indifferent hand.
‘The Librarians did that.’

‘They did?’

‘Of course,’ Bastille said.
‘They have an ambassador in town and we’re going to stop them from taking over Mokia.
Hence, they tried to kill us.
Once the Librarians try to blow you up a few dozen times, you get used to it.’

‘Are we sure it was them?’
I asked.
‘One of the rooms exploded, you said.
Whose?’

‘My mother’s,’ Bastille replied.
‘We think it might have been from some Detonator’s Glass slipped into her pack before she left Nalhalla.
She carried that pack all the way through the Library of Alexandria, and it was set to go off when she got back in range of the city.’

‘Wow.
Elaborate.’

‘That’s the Librarians.
Anyway, something is bothering my mother.
I can tell.’

‘Maybe she’s feeling bad for punishing you so harshly.’

Bastille snorted.
‘Not likely.
This is something else, something about the sword .
.
.’

She trailed off and didn’t seem to have anything else to add.
A few moments later, Grandpa Smedry waved me toward him.
‘Alcatraz!’
he said.
‘Come listen to this!’

My grandfather was sitting with Sing on the couches.
I walked over and sat down next to my grandfather, noting how comfortable the couch was.
I hadn’t seen any other dragons like this one crawling across the walls of the city, so I assumed that the ride was a special privilege.

‘Sing, tell my grandson what you’ve been telling me,’ Grandpa Smedry said.

‘Well, here’s the thing,’ Sing said, leaning forward.
‘This ambassador sent by the Librarians, she’s from the Wardens of the Standard.’

‘Who?’
I asked.

‘It’s one of the Librarian sects,’ Sing explained.
‘Blackburn was from the Order of the Dark Oculators, while the assassin you faced in the Library of Alexandria was from the Order of the Scrivener’s Bones.
The Wardens of the Standard have always claimed to be the most kindly of the Librarians.’

‘Kindly Librarians?
That seems like an oxymoron.’

‘It’s also an act,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘The whole order is founded on the idea of
looking
innocent; they’re really the deadliest snakes in the lot.
The Wardens maintain most of the Hushlander libraries.
They pretend that because they’re only a bunch of bureaucrats, they’re not dangerous like the Dark Oculators or the Order of the Shattered Lens.’

‘Well, act or not,’ Sing replied, ‘they’re the only Librarians who have ever made any kind of effort to work
with
the Free Kingdoms, rather than just trying to conquer us.
This ambassador has convinced the Council of Kings that she is serious.’

I listened, interested, but not quite sure why my grandfather wanted me to know this.
I’m a rather awesome person (have I mentioned that?) but I’m really not that great at politics.
It’s one of the three things I’ve no experience whatsoever doing, the other two being writing books and atmospheric rocket-propelled penguin riding.
(Stupid responsibility.)

‘So .
.
.
what does this have to do with me?’
I asked.

‘Everything, lad, everything!’
Grandpa Smedry pointed at me.
‘We’re Smedrys.
When we gave up our kingdom, we took an oath to watch over
all
of the Free Kingdoms.
We’re the guardians of civilization!’

‘But wouldn’t it be good if the kings make peace with the Librarians?’

Sing looked pained.
‘Alcatraz, to do so, they would give up
Mokia
, my homeland!
It would get folded into the Hushlands, and a generation or two from now, the Mokians wouldn’t even
remember
being free.
My people can’t continue to fight the Librarians without the support of the other Free Kingdoms.
We’re too small on our own.’

‘The Librarians won’t keep their promise of peace,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘They’ve wanted Mokia badly for years now – I still don’t know why they’re so focused on it, as opposed to other kingdoms.
Either way, taking over Mokia will put them one step closer to controlling the entire world.
Manhandling Moons!
Do you really think we can just give away an entire kingdom like that?’

I looked at Sing.
The oversized anthropologist and his sister had become very dear to me over the last few months.
They were earnest and fiercely loyal, and Sing had believed in me even when I’d tried to push him away.
And for that, I wanted to do whatever I could to help him.

‘No,’ I said.
‘You’re right, we can’t let that happen.
We’ve
got
to stop it.’

Grandpa Smedry smiled, laying a hand on my shoulder.
It might not seem like much, but this was a drastic turning point for me.
It was the first time I really decided that I was in.
I’d entered the Library of Alexandria only because I’d been chased by a monster.
I’d only gone into Blackburn’s lair because Grandpa Smedry had urged me on.

This was different.
I understood then why my grandfather had called me over.
He wanted me to be part of this – not just a kid who tags along, but a full participant.

Something tells me I’d have been much better off hiding in my room.
Responsibility.
It’s the opposite of selfishness.
I wish I’d known where it would get me.
But this was before my betrayal and before I went blind.

Through one of the windows, I could see that the dragon had begun to descend.
A moment later, the gondola settled against the ground.

We had arrived.

4

A
ll right, I understand.
you’re confused.
Don’t feel ashamed; it happens to everyone once in a while.
(Except me, of course.)

Having read the previous two books of my autobiography (as I’m
sure
by now you have), you know that I’m generally down on myself.
I’ve told you that I’m a liar, a sadist, and a terrible person.
And yet now in this volume, I’ve started talking about my awesomeness.
Have I really changed my mind?
Have I actually decided that I am a hero?
Am I wearing kitty-cat socks right now?

No.
(The socks have dolphins on them.)

I’ve realized something.
By being so hard on myself in the previous books, I
sounded
like I was being humble.
Readers assumed that because I said I was a terrible person, I must – indeed – be a saint.

Honestly, are you people determined to drive me insane?
Why can’t you just
listen
to what I tell you?

Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to convince you readers that I’m a terrible person is to show you how arrogant and self-centered I am.
I’ll do this by talking about my virtues.
Incessantly.
All the time.
Until you’re completely sick of hearing about my superiority.

Maybe then you’ll understand.

The royal palace of Nalhalla turned out to be the white, pyramid-like castle at the center of the city.
I stepped from the gondola, trying not to gawk as I gazed up at the magnificent building.
The stonework was carved up as high as I could see.

‘Forward!’
Grandpa Smedry said, rushing up the steps like a general running into battle.
He’s remarkably spry for a person who is always late to everything.

I glanced at Bastille, who looked kind of sick.
‘I think I’ll wait outside,’ she said.

‘You’re going in,’ Draulin snapped, walking up the steps, her armor clinking.

I frowned.
Usually, Draulin was very keen on making Bastille wait outside, since a mere ‘squire’ shouldn’t be involved in important issues.
Why insist that she enter the palace?
I shot Bastille a questioning glance, but she just grimaced.
So I rushed to catch up to my grandfather and Sing.

‘ .
.
.
afraid I can’t tell you much more, Lord Smedry,’ Sing was saying.
‘Folsom is the one who has been keeping track of the Council of Kings in your absence.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘He’ll be here, I assume?’

‘He should be!’
Sing said.

‘Another cousin?’
I asked.

Grandpa Smedry nodded.
‘Quentin’s elder brother, son of my daughter, Pattywagon.
Folsom’s a fine lad!
Brig had his eye on the boy for quite some time to marry one of his daughters, I believe.’

‘Brig?’
I asked.

‘King Dartmoor,’ Sing said.

Dartmoor.
‘Wait,’ I said.
‘That’s a prison, isn’t it?
Dartmoor?’
(I know my prisons, as you might guess.)

‘Indeed, lad,’ Grandpa Smedry said.

‘Doesn’t that mean he’s related to us?’

It was a stupid question.
Fortunately I knew I’d be writing my memoirs and understood that a lot of people might be confused about this point.
Therefore, using my powers of awsomosity, I asked this stupid-
sounding
question in order to lay the groundwork for my book series.

I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.

‘No,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘A prison name doesn’t necessarily mean that someone is a Smedry.
The king’s family is traditional, like ours, and they tend to use names of famed historical people over and over.
The Librarians then named prisons after those same famous historical people to discredit them.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said.

Something about that thought bothered me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Probably because the thought was inside my head, and so ‘putting my finger on it’ would have required sticking said finger through my skull, which sounds kind of painful.

Besides, the beauty of the hallway beyond those doors stopped me flat and cast all thoughts from my mind.

I’m no poet.
Anytime I try to write poetry, it comes out as insults.
I probably should have been a rapper, or at least a politician.
Regardless, I sometimes find it hard to express beauty through words.

Suffice it to say that the enormous hallway stunned me, even after seeing a city full of castles, even after being carried on a dragon’s back.
The hallway was big.
It was white.
It was lined with what appeared to be pictures, but there was nothing in the frames.
Other than glass.

Different kinds of glass
, I realized as we walked down the magnificent hallway.
Here, the glass is the art!
Indeed, each framed piece of glass was a different color.
Plaques at the top listed the types of glass.
I recognized some, and most of them glowed faintly.
I was wearing my Oculator’s Lenses, which allowed me to see auras of powerful glass.

In a Hushlander palace, the kings showed off their gold and their silver.
Here, the kings showed off their rare and expensive pieces of glass.

I watched in wonder, wishing Sing and Grandpa Smedry weren’t rushing so quickly.
We eventually turned through a set of doors and entered a long rectangular chamber filled with elevated seats on both the right and the left.
Most of these were filled with people who quietly watched the proceedings below.

In the center of the room sat a broad table at which were seated about two dozen men and women wearing rich clothing of many exotic designs.
I spotted King Dartmoor immediately.
He was sitting on an elevated chair at the end of the table.
Clothed in regal blue-and-gold robes, he wore a full red beard, and my Oculator’s Lenses – which sometimes enhanced the images of people and places I looked at – made him seem slightly
taller
than he really was.
More noble, larger than life.

I stopped in the doorway.
I’d never been in the presence of royalty before, and—

‘Leavenworth
Smedry
!’
a vivacious feminine voice squealed.
‘You rascal!
You’re back!’

The entire room seemed to turn as one, looking at a full-figured (remember what that means?) woman who leaped from her chair and barreled toward my grandfather.
She had short blond hair and an excited expression.

I believe that’s the first time I ever saw a hint of fear in my grandfather’s eyes.
The woman proceeded to grab the diminutive Oculator in a hug.
Then she saw me.

‘Is this Alcatraz?’
she demanded.
‘Shattering Glass, boy, does your mouth always hang open like that?’

I shut my mouth.

‘Lad,’ Grandpa Smedry said as the woman finally released him.
‘This is your aunt, Pattywagon Smedry.
My daughter, Quentin’s mother.’

‘Excuse me,’ a voice called from the floor below.
I blushed, realizing that the monarchs were watching us.
‘Lady Smedry,’ King Dartmoor said in a booming voice, ‘is it
requisite
that you disrupt these proceedings?’

‘Sorry, Your Majesty,’ she called down.
‘But these fellows are a lot more exciting than you are!’

Grandpa Smedry sighed, then whispered to me, ‘Do you want to take a guess at her Smedry Talent?’

‘Causing disruptions?’
I whispered back.

‘Close,’ Grandpa Smedry said.
‘She can say inappropriate things at awkward moments.’

That seemed to fit.

‘Oh, don’t give me that look,’ she said, wagging her finger at the king.
‘You can’t tell me you’re not excited to see them back too.’

The king sighed.
‘We will take a recess of one hour for family reunions.
Lord Smedry, did you return with your long-lost grandson, as reports indicated you might?’

‘Indeed I did!’
Grandpa Smedry proclaimed.
‘Not only that but we also brought a pair of the fabled Translator’s Lenses, smelted from the Sands of Rashid themselves!’

This prompted a reaction in the crowd, and murmuring began immediately.
One small contingent of men and women sitting directly across from us did not seem pleased to see Grandpa Smedry.
Instead of tunics or robes, the members of this group wore suits – the men with bow ties, the women with shawls.
Many wore glasses, which had horned rims.

Librarians.

The room grew chaotic as the audience members began to stand, producing an excited buzz, almost like a thousand hornets had suddenly been released.
My aunt Patty began to speak animatedly with her father, demanding the details of his time in the Hushlands.
Her voice managed to carry out over the noise of the crowd, though she didn’t appear to be yelling.
That’s just how she was.

‘Alcatraz?’

I glanced to the side, where Bastille stood shuffling uncomfortably.
‘Yeah?’
I said.

‘This .
.
.
might be an appropriate place to mention something.’

‘Wait,’ I said, growing nervous.
‘Look, the king’s coming up this way!’

‘Of course he is,’ Bastille said.
‘He wants to see his family.’

‘Of course.
He wants to .
.
.
Wait,
what
?’

At that moment, King Dartmoor stepped up to us.
Grandpa Smedry and the others bowed to him – even Patty – so I did the same.
Then the king kissed Draulin.

That’s right.
He
kissed
her.
I watched with shock, and not just because I’d never imagined that anyone would want to kiss Draulin.
(Seemed a little like kissing an alligator.)

And if Draulin was the king’s wife, that meant .
.
.

‘You’re a princess!’
I said, pointing an accusing finger at Bastille.

She grimaced.
‘Yeah, kind of.’

‘How can you “kind of” be a princess?’

‘Well, I can’t inherit the throne,’ she said.
‘I renounced claim on it when I joined the Knights of Crystallia.
Vow of poverty and all that.’

The crowd milled about us, some exiting the room, others stopping – oddly – to gawk at my grandfather and me.

I should have realized that Bastille was royalty.
Prison names.
She has one, but her mother doesn’t.
That was an easy indication that her father’s family was of an important breed.
Besides, stories such as this one
always
have at least one hidden member of royalty among the core cast.
It’s, like, some kind of union mandate or something.

I had several options at this point.
Fortunately, I chose the one that didn’t make me look like a total dork.

‘That’s
awesome
!’
I exclaimed.

Bastille blinked.
‘You’re not mad at me for hiding it?’

I shrugged.
‘Bastille, I’m some kind of freaky noble thing myself.
Why should it matter if you are too?
Besides, it’s not like you were lying or anything.
You just don’t like to talk about yourself.’

Brace yourselves.
Something very, very strange is about to happen.
Stranger than talking dinosaurs.
Stranger than glass birds.
Stranger, even, than my analogies to fish sticks.

Bastille got teary eyed.
Then she hugged me.

Girls, might I make a suggestion at this point?
Don’t go around hugging people without warning.
To many of us (a number somewhere near half), this is akin to pouring an entire bottle of seventeen-alarm hot sauce in our mouths.

I believe that at this point in the story, I made several very interesting and incoherent noises, followed – perhaps – by a blank expression and then some numb-faced drooling.