Authors: Brandon Sanderson
Alcatraz (60 page)
I glanced back at the knights guarding the doorway.
‘Is there some kind of organization to all of this?’
I asked hopefully.
The knight paled in the face.
‘Organization?
Like .
.
.
a cataloging system?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘You know, so that we can find stuff easily?’
‘That’s what Librarians do!’
the blond knight said.
‘Great,’ I said.
‘Just great.
Thanks anyway.’
I sighed, stepping away from the door, which the knights closed behind me.
I grabbed a lamp off the wall.
‘Well, let’s go investigate,’ I said to the others.
‘See if we can find anything suspicious.’
We wandered the room, and I tried not to let my annoyance get the better of me.
The Librarians had done some horrible things to the Free Kingdoms; it made sense that the Nalhallans would have an irrational fear of Librarian ways.
However, I found it amazing that a people who loved learning so much could treat books in such a horrible manner.
From the way the tomes were strewn, it seemed to me that their method of ‘archiving’ books was to toss them into the storage chamber and forget about them.
The piles grew larger and more mountainous near the back of the chamber, as if they’d been systematically pushed there by some infernal, literacy-hating bulldozer.
I stopped, hands on my hips.
I had expected a museum, or at least a den filled with bookshelves.
Instead, I’d gotten a teenage boy’s bedroom.
‘How could they tell if anything was missing?’
I asked.
‘They can’t,’ Sing said.
‘They figure if nobody can get in to steal books, then they don’t have to keep them counted or organized.’
‘That’s stupid,’ I said, holding up my light.
The chamber was longer than it was wide, so I could see the walls on either side of me.
The place wasn’t infinite, like the Library of Alexandria had seemed.
It was essentially just one very big room filled with thousands and thousands of books.
I walked back down the pathway between the mounds.
How could you tell if anything was suspicious about a place you’d never visited before?
I was about to give up when I heard it.
A sound.
‘I don’t know, Alcatraz,’ Sing was saying.
‘Maybe we—’
I held up a hand, quieting him.
‘Do you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
I closed my eyes, listening.
Had I imagined it?
‘Over there,’ Bastille said.
I opened my eyes to find her pointing toward one of the walls.
‘Scraping sounds, like .
.
.’
‘Like digging,’ I said, scrambling over a stack of books.
I climbed up the pile, slipping on what appeared to be several volumes of the royal tax code, until I reached the top and could touch the wall.
It was, of course, made of glass.
I pressed an ear against it.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘There are
definitely
digging sounds coming from the other side.
My mother didn’t sneak in here, she snuck into a nearby building!
They’re tunneling into the Royal Archives!’
‘Not—’ Sing began.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s
not a library
.
I get it.’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was going to say “Not to disagree, Alcatraz, but it’s impossible to break into this place.”’
‘What?’
I said, sliding back down the pile of books.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s built out of Enforcer’s Glass,’ Bastille said.
She was looking better, but still somewhat dazed.
‘You can’t break that, not even with Smedry Talents.’
I looked back at the wall.
‘I’ve seen impossible things happen.
My mother has Translator’s Lenses; there’s no telling what she’s learned from the Forgotten Language so far.
Maybe they know a way to get through that glass.’
‘Possible,’ Sing said, scratching his chin.
‘Though, to be honest, if I were them, I’d just tunnel into the stairwell out there, then come through the door.’
I glanced at the wall.
That
did
seem likely.
‘Come on,’ I said, rushing over and pulling open the door.
The two knights outside glanced in.
‘Yes, Lord Smedry?’
one asked.
‘Someone may be trying to dig into the stairwell,’ I said.
‘Librarians.
Get some more troops down here.’
The knights looked surprised, but they obeyed my orders, one rushing up the stairs to do as commanded.
I looked back at Bastille and Sing, who still stood in the room.
Soldiers weren’t going to be enough – I wasn’t just going to sit and wait to see what plot the Librarians were going to be putting into effect.
Mokia was in trouble, and
I
had to help.
That meant blocking what my mother and the others were doing, perhaps even exposing their double-dealing to the monarchs.
‘We need to figure out what it is in here that my mother wants,’ I said, ‘then take it first.’
Bastille and Sing looked at each other, then glanced back at the ridiculous number of books.
I could read their thoughts in their expressions.
Find the thing my mother wanted?
Out of this mess?
How could anyone find
anything
in here?
It was then that I said something I never thought I’d hear myself say, no matter how old I grew.
‘We need a Librarian,’ I declared.
‘
Fast
.’
Y
es, you heard that right.
I – Alcatraz Smedry – needed a Librarian.
Now, you may have gotten the impression that there are absolutely no uses for Librarians.
I’m sorry if I implied that.
Librarians are
very
useful.
For instance, they are useful if you are fishing for sharks and need some bait.
They’re also useful for throwing out windows to test the effects of concrete impact on horn-rimmed glasses.
If you have enough Librarians, you can build bridges out of them.
(Just like witches.)
And, unfortunately, they are
also
useful for organizing things.
I hurried up the stairs with Sing and Bastille.
We had to push our way past the soldiers who now lined the steps; the men and women held their swords, looking concerned.
I’d sent a soldier with a message for my grandfather and another for my father, warning them of what we’d discovered.
I’d also ordered one of the knights to send a contingent to search nearby buildings – maybe they’d be able to find the librarian base and the other end of the tunnel.
I wasn’t counting on that happening, though.
My mother wouldn’t be caught so easily.
‘We need to go
fast
,’ I said.
‘There’s no telling when my mother will break into that chamber.’
I still felt a little bit sick for needing the help of a Librarian.
It was frustrating.
Terribly frustrating.
In fact, I don’t think I can accurately – through text – show you just
how
frustrating it was.
But because I love you, I’m going to try anyway.
Let’s start by randomly capitalizing letters.
‘We cAn SenD fOr a draGOn to cArry us,’ SinG saId As we burst oUt oF the stAirWeLL and ruSHED tHrough ThE roOm aBovE.
‘ThAT wILl taKe tOO Long,’ BaStiLlE saiD.
‘We’Ll haVe To graB a VeHiCle oFf thE STrEet,’ I sAid.
(You know what, that’s not nearly frustrating enough.
I’m going to have to start adding in random punctuation marks too.)
We c!RoS-Sed thrOu?gH t%he Gra##ND e`nt
We nEeDeD!!
To bE QuicK?.?
UnFOrTu()nAtelY, tHE!re weRe no C?arriA-ges on tHe rOa^D for U/s to cOmMan>
THerE w+eRe pe/\Ople wa|lK|Ing aBoUt, BU?t no caRr#iaGes.
(Okay, you know what?
That’s not frustrating enough either.
Let’s start replacing some random vowels with the letter
Q
.)
I lqOk-eD abO!qT, dE#sPqrA#te, fRq?sTr/Ated (like you, hopefully), anD aNn\qYeD.
Jq!St eaR&lIer, tHqr^E hq.d BeeN DoZen!S of cq?RriqgEs on The rQA!d!
No-W tHqRe wA=Sn’t a SqnGl+e oN^q.
‘ThE_rQ!’
I eXclai$mqd, poIntIng.
Mqv=Ing do~Wn th_e RqaD!
a shoRt diStq++nCe aWay
‘LeT’s G_q gRA?b iT!’
(Okay, you know how frustrated you are trying to read that?
Well, that’s about
half
as frustrated as I was at having to go get a Librarian to help me.
Aren’t you happy I let you experience what I was feeling?
That’s the sign of excellent storytelling: writing that makes the reader have the same emotions as the characters.
You can thank me later.)
We rushed up to the thing walking down the road.
It was a glass animal of some sort, a little like the
Hawkwind
or the
Dragonaut
, except instead of flying, it was walking.
As we rounded it, I got a better view.
I froze in place on the street.
‘A
pig
?’
Sing shrugged.
Bastille, however, rushed toward the pig in a determined run.
She looked less dazed, though she still had a very .
.
.
worn-out cast to her.
Her eyes were dark and puffy, her face haggard and exhausted.
I jogged after her.
As we approached the enormous pig, a section of glass on its backside slid away, revealing someone standing inside.
I feel the need to pause and explain that I don’t approve of potty humor in the least.
There has already been far too much of it in this book, and – trifecta or not – it’s just not appropriate.
Potty humor is the literary equivalent of potato chips and soda.
Appealing, perhaps, but at the same time, dreadful and in poor taste.
I will have you know that I don’t stand for such things and – as in the previous volumes of my narrative – intend to hold this story to rigorous quality standards.
‘Farting barf-faced poop!’
a voice exclaimed from inside the pig’s butt.
(Sigh.
Sorry.
At least that’s another great paragraph to try working into a random conversation.)
The man standing in the pig’s posterior was none other than Prince Rikers Dartmoor, Bastille’s brother, son of the king.
He still wore his royal blue robes, his red baseball cap topping a head of red hair.
‘Excuse me?’
I said, stopping short outside the pig.
‘What was that you said, Your Highness?’
‘I hear that Hushlanders like to use synonyms for excrement as curses!’
the prince said.
‘I was trying to make you feel at home, Alcatraz!
What in the world are you doing in the middle of the street?’
‘We need a ride, Rikers,’ Bastille said.
‘
Fast
.’
‘Explosive diarrhea!’
the prince exclaimed.
‘And for the last time,
stop
trying to talk like a Hushlander.
It makes you sound like an idiot.’
She jumped up into the pig, then extended a hand to help me up.
I smiled, taking her hand.
‘What?’
she asked.
‘Nice to see you’re feeling better.’
‘I feel terrible,’ she snapped, sliding on her dark sunglasseslike Warrior’s Lenses.
‘I can barely concentrate, and I’ve got this horrible buzzing in my ears.
Now shut up and climb in the pig’s butt.’
I did as ordered, letting her pull me up.
Doing so was harder for her than it would have been previously – being disconnected from the Mindstone must have taken away some of her abilities – but she was still far stronger than any thirteen-year-old girl had a right to be.
The Warrior’s Lenses probably helped; they’re one of the few types of Lenses that anyone can wear.
Bastille helped Sing up next as the prince rushed through the glass pig – which had a very nice, lush interior – calling for his driver to turn around.
‘Uh, where are we going on our amazing adventure?’
the prince called.
Amazing adventure?
I thought.
‘To the palace,’ I called.
‘We need to find my cousin Folsom.’
‘The palace?’
the prince said, obviously disappointed – for him, at least, that was a fairly mundane location.
He called out the order anyway.
The pig started to move again, tromping down the street.
The pedestrians apparently knew to stay out of its way, and despite its large size, it made very good time.
I sat down on one of the regal red couches, and Bastille sat next to me, exhaling and closing her eyes.
‘Does it hurt?’
I asked.
She shrugged.
She’s good at the tough-girl act, but I could tell that the severing still bothered her deeply.
‘Why do we need Folsom?’
she asked, eyes still closed, obviously trying to distract me from asking after her.
‘He’ll be with Himalaya,’ I said, then realized that Bastille had never met the Librarian.
‘She’s a Librarian who supposedly defected to our side six months back.
I don’t think she’s to be trusted, though.’
‘Why?’
‘Folsom stays suspiciously close to her,’ I said.
‘He rarely lets her out of his sight – she’s really a Librarian spy.’
‘Great,’ Bastille said.
‘And we’re going to ask
her
for help?’
‘She’s our best bet,’ I said.
‘She is a fully trained Librarian – if anyone can sort through that mess in the Royal Archives—’
‘Not a library!’
Rikers called distantly from the front of the pig.
‘—it will be a Librarian.
Besides, maybe if she
is
a spy, she’ll know what the Librarians are looking for and we can force it out of her.’
‘So, your brilliant plan is to go to someone you suspect of being our enemy, then bring her into the very place that the Librarians are trying to break into.’
‘Er .
.
.
yes.’
‘Wonderful.
Why do I feel that I’m going to end this ridiculous fiasco wishing I’d just given up my knighthood and become an accountant instead?’
I smiled.
It felt
good
to have Bastille back.
It was hard for me to feel too impressed by my own fame with her there pointing out the holes in my plans.
‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’
I asked.
‘About quitting the knighthood?’
She sighed, opening her eyes.
‘No.
As much as I hate to admit it, my mother was right.
I’m not only good at this, but I enjoy it.’
She looked at me, meeting my eyes.
‘Somebody set me up, Alcatraz.
I’m convinced of it.
They
wanted
me to fail.’
‘Your .
.
.
mother was the one who voted most harshly against your reinstatement.’
Bastille nodded, and I could see that she was thinking the same thing that I was.
‘We have quite the parents, don’t we?’
I asked.
‘My father ignores me; my mother married him just to get his Talent.’
Marry a Smedry, and you got a Talent.
Apparently, it didn’t matter if you were a Smedry by blood or by marriage: A Smedry was a Smedry.
The only difference was that in the case of a marriage, the spouse got their husband’s or wife’s same Talent.
‘My parents aren’t like that,’ Bastille said fiercely.
‘They’re good people.
My father is one of the most respected and popular kings Nalhalla has ever known.’
‘Even if he is giving up on Mokia,’ Sing said quietly from his seat across from us.
‘He
thinks
he’s doing the best thing,’ Bastille said.
‘How would you like to have to decide whether to end a war – and save thousands of lives – or keep fighting?
He sees a chance for peace, and the people
want
peace.’
‘My people want peace,’ Sing said.
‘But we want freedom more.’
Bastille fell silent.
‘Anyway,’ she finally said, ‘assuming my mother
was
the one to set me up, I can see exactly why she’d do it.
She worries about showing favoritism toward me.
She feels she needs to be extra hard on me, which is why she’d send me on such a difficult mission.
To see if I failed, and therefore needed to go back into training.
But she
does
care for me.
She just has strange ways of showing it.’
I sat back, thinking about my own parents.
Perhaps Bastille could come up with good motives for hers, but they were a noble king and a brave knight.
What did I have?
An egotistical rock-star scientist and an evil Librarian who even other
Librarians
didn’t seem to like very much.
Attica and Shasta Smedry were not like Bastille’s parents.
My mother didn’t care about me – she’d married only to get the Talent.
And my father obviously didn’t want to spend any time with me.
No wonder I turned out like I did.
There is a saying in the Free Kingdoms: ‘A cub’s roar is an echo of the bear.’
It’s a little bit like one we use in the Hushlands: ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
(It figures that the Librarian version would use apples instead of something cool, like bears.)
