Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (15 page)

"Never can tell, with the Talent," Kaz sai
d
.
“
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
T
a
lent 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 T
a
lent."

Bastille looked at me, frowning. "What is it?
”

"
S
omeone'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
O
culator close to us."
I paused, then pointed. "That way."

Bastille shared a look with Kaz. "Let's
go check it out,”
she said.

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 nev
er know who is going to be read
ing 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 vari
ety of people who could pick this book
u
p is incredible.

You could be a young boy, wanting to read
an
a
dven
ture story. You could be a young girl, wanting to investigate
the truth of the Librarian Conspiracy. You might be a
mother,
r
eading 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
A
lcatraz
S
medry, nor is it
Brandon S
anderson.
My name is really Garth Nix, and you
can find me in Australia.
O
h, and I insulted your mother
once. What're you going to do about it, huh?)

Anyway it's very difficul
t to relate this story to every
one who might be reading my book.
S
o, I've decided not to
try. Instead, I'll just say something that makes no sense
to anyone:
F
lagwat the h
a
ppy beansprout.

C
onfusion, after all, is the
true
universal language.

"The feeling is coming from that direction," I said,
pointing.
U
nfortunately, "that direction" happened to be
straight through a wall full of books.

"
S
o . . . one of the books is an
O
culator?" Kaz
asked.

I rolled my eyes.

He chuckled. "I understood what you meant.
Stop act
ing like Bastille.
O
bviousl
y
we have to find a
way around.
There must be another hallway on the other side."

I nodded, but . . . the Lens felt
close
.
W
e'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
O
culator's Lenses instead.
O
ne 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
G
randp
a
Smedry, since
he's the only other Oculator we know to be down here.
Except for, well,
y
our 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.
"
S
omething is back there," I said. "I think there might be a
secret passage or something."

"How do we
trigger it?" Bastille asked. "P
ull one of the
books?"

"I guess."

O
ne of the ever-present
C
urators floated closer.
“Y
es,
”
it
said. "Pull one of the books. Ta
ke it."

I paused, hand half
w
ay up to the shelf. "I'm not going
to take it; I'll just s
hake it a bit.”

"Tr
y it," the curator whispered.
"
W
hether you pick up
a book, or whether it falls of
f accidentally, it does not mat
ter. 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 bookshe
l
f falls over, it wi
ll
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 m
y power.

The wall crumbled, br
icks breaking free of their mor
tar.
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
w
as
some kind of room back there.

"That was rash, Alcatraz," Bastille said, folding her arms.

"He's a true Smedry!" Kaz said, laughing.

I g
lanced at the two of them, suddenly
embarrassed.
"
S
omeone 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 ask
ing. Do you want to be in charge or not?"

"Uh . . . Well . . . I, that is . . .
”

"Brilliant," she said, peeking into the hole between the
bookcases.
"
V
ery inspiring.
Kaz, do you think we can get
through?"

Kaz was prying a lamp off the wall.
"
S
ure 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.
W
e didn't,
fortunately, lose any books - or any souls - in the process.
O
nce 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 wisecr
acking archaeolo
gists 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.

"Alcatra
z, 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
C
urators, who
floated in through the wall in a fittingly ghostly manner.

"C
urators," I said. "
Do these coins count as books?”

"They are written," one said. "P
aper, cloth, or metal, it
matters not."

"You can check one out, if
you wish," another whis
pered, floating up to me.

I shivered, then glanced at Bastille.
"
Y
ou just saved my
life," I said, feeling numb.

S
he 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.
C
haracters 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

1) Lose it in an earthquake or natural disaster.