Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (19 page)

I shook my head, trying to clear it.
Then, I crawled over
to Bastille.
She groaned, looking even more dazed than I
felt, but she seemed all right.
Finally, I glanced
u
p the dark
shaft toward the light above. A concerned Kaz stuck his
head out over the opening.

"Alcatraz!" he yelled. "You two all right?"

"Yeah," I called up.
“
I think we are
.”
I poked at the
ground, trying to decide why it had broken our fall.
It
appeared to be made of some kind of cushioned cloth.

"The ground is padded," I called up to Kaz. "Probably
to keep us from breaking our necks."
It was another Curator
trap, meant to frustrate us, but not kill us.

"What was the point of that?" I heard Kaz bellow at
Kiliman. "They just agreed to trade with you!"

"Yes, he did." I could faintly hear Kiliman's voice.
"But
the Librarians of my order have a saying: Never trust a
Smedry."

"Well, he's not going to be able to trade with you while
he's trapped in a pit!" Kaz yelled.

"True," Kiliman said.
"But you can
trade. Have him pass
you the T
r
anslator's Lenses, then meet me at the center of
the Library. You are the one who has the power to Travel
places, are you not?"

Kaz fell silent.

This creature knows a lot about us
, I thought with
frustration.

"You are a Smedry," Kiliman said to Kaz
.
"But not
an Oculator.
I will deal with you instead of the boy.
Bring me the Lenses, and I will return the woman
–
with
her Fleshstone
–
to
you.
Be quick.
She will die
within the hour."

There was silence, broken only by Bastille's groan as she
sat up. She still had the Translator's Lenses in her hand.
Eventually,
Kaz's
head popped out above the pit.

“
Alcatra
z?" he called.
"You there?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Where else would we be?" Bastille grumbled.

"It's too dark to see you," Kaz said.
“
Anyway, the
Scrivener's Bone has
left
, and I can't get through the bars to
follow him.
What should we do?
Do you want me to try
to find some rope?"

I sat, trying
–
with
all of my capacity
–
to
think of a
way out of the predicament.
Bastille's mother was dying
because a piece of crystal had been ripped from her
body. Kiliman had her and would trade her only for the
T
r
anslator's Lenses.
I was trapped in a pit with Bastille,
who had taken a much harder hit falling than I had, and we
had no rope.

I was stuck, looking for a solution where there wasn't
o
ne.
S
ometimes, there
j
ust isn't a way out, and thinking
won't help, no matter how clever you are.
In a way, that's
kind of like what I wrot
e at the beginning of this chap
ter.
You remember, the secret "thing" I claimed to have
done in this book?
The shameful, clever trick?
Did you
go looking for it?
W
ell, whatever you found, that wasn't
what I was intending
–
because there is no trick.
No hid
den message.
No clever twist I put into the first fourteen
c
hapters.

I don't know how hard you searched, but it couldn't
have been harder than I searched for a way to both save
Draulin and keep my Lenses.
I was quickly running out of
time, and I knew it.
I had to make a decision.
Right then.
Right there.

I chose to take the Lenses from Bastille and throw them
up to Kaz.
He caught them, just barely.

"C
an your T
a
lent take you to the center of the Library?"
I asked.

He nodded.
"I think so.
Now that I have a location to
search for."

"Go," I said.
"T
r
ade the Lenses for Draulin's life.
W
e'll
worry about getting them back later."

Kaz nodded.
"All right.
You wait here
–
I'll find a rope or
something and come back for you once Bastille's mother
is safe."

He disappeared for a moment, then returned, head
sticking back out over the opening.
"Before I go, do you
want this?"
He held out Bastille's pack.

The Grappler's Glass boots were inside.
I felt a stab of
hope, but quickly dismissed it.
The sides of the shaft were
stone.

Besides, even if I did get free, I'd still have to trade the
Lenses for Draulin.
I'd just have to do it in person.
Still,
there was food in the pack.
No telling how long we'd be in
the pit.
"Sure," I called up to him, "drop it."

He did so, and I stepped to the side,
letting it hit the soft
ground.
By now, Bastille was on her feet, though she leaned
woozily against the side of the pit.

This was why I shouldn't ever have been made a leader.
This is why nobody should ever look to me.
Even then, I
made the wrong decisions.
A leader has to be hard, capable
of making the right choice.

You think I
did
make the right one? Well, then, you'd be
as poor a leader as I was. You see, saving Draulin was the
wrong choice.
By trading the T
r
anslator's Lenses, I may
have saved one life, but at a terrible cost.

Th
e
Librarians would gain access to the knowledge
of the Incarna people.
Sure, Draulin would live
–
but
how many would die as the war turned against the Free
Kingdoms?
With ancient technology at their disposal, the
Librarians would become a force that could no longer be
held back.

I’d saved one life, but doomed so many more. That’s not the sort of weakness a leader ca
n afford.
I suspect that
Kaz knew the truth of that.
He hesitated, then asked, "
Y
ou
sure you want to do this, kid?"

"Yes," I said.
At the time, I didn't think about things like
protecting the future of the Free Kingdoms or the like.
I
just knew one thing: I couldn't be the one responsible for
Draulin's death.

“
All right
,”
Kaz said.
"I'll be back for you. Don't worry."

"Good luck, Kaz.”

And he was gone.

Writ
e
rs
–
particularly
s
t
orytellers
like myself
–
write
about people.
That is ironic, since we actually know nothing
about them.

Think about it.
Why does someone become a writer?
Is
it because they
like
p
eople?
Of c
ourse not.
Why else would
we seek out a job where we get to spend all day, every day,
cooped up in our basement with no company besides
paper, a pencil, and our imaginary
f
riends?

Writers hate people.
If you've ever met a writer, you
know that they're generally awkward, slovenly individuals
who live beneath stairwells, hiss at those who pass, and
forget to bathe for weeklong periods.
And those are the
socially competent ones.

I looked up at the sides of our pit.

Bastille sat on the floor, obviously trying to pretend
she was a patient person.
It worked about as well as a
watermelon trying to pretend it was a golf ball.
(Though
not as messy and
h
alf as much fun.)

"Come on, Bastille," I said, glancing at her.
"I know
you're as frustrated as I am. What are you thinking?
Could I break these walls somehow?
Make a slope we can
climb up?"

“
And risk the sides of the wall toppling down on us?"
she asked flatly.

She had a point.
"What if we tried to climb up without
using the T
a
lent?"

"These walls are slick and polished, Smedry," she
snapped.
"Not even a Crystin can climb that."

"But if we shimmied up, feet on one wall, back against
the other one . . ."

"The hole is way too wide for that."

I fell silent.

"What?" she asked.
"No other brilliant ideas?
What about
jumping up?
You should try that a few times."
She turned
away from me, looking at the side of our pit, then sighed.

I frowned. "Bastille, this isn't like you."

"Oh?" she asked.
"How do you know what's 'like me'
and what isn't?
You've known me for what, a couple of
months?
During which time we've spent all of three or
four days
t
ogether?"

"Yes, but . . . well, I mean . . ."

"It's over, Smedry," she said.
"We're beaten.
Kaz has
probably already arrived at the center of the Library and
given up those Lenses.
Chances are, Kiliman will just take
him captive and let my mother die."

"Maybe we can still find a way out.
And go help."

Bastille didn't seem to be listening. She simply sat down,
arms folded across her knees, staring at the wall.
"They
really are right about me," she whispered.
"I never deserved
to be a knight."

"What?" I asked, squatting down beside her.
"Bastille,
that's nonsense."

"I've only done two real operations.
This one and the
infiltration back in your hometown.
Both times I ended
up trapped, unable to do anything.
I'm useless."

"We
all
got trapped," I said.
"Your mother didn't fare
much better."

She ignored this, still shaking her head.
"
U
seless.
Y
ou
had to save me from those ropes, and then you had to save
me
again
when we were covered in tar. That's not even
counting the time you saved me from falling out the side
of the
Dragonaut
."

"You saved me too," I said.
"Remember the coins?
If it
wasn't for you, I'd be floating around with burning eyes,
offering illicit books to people as if I were a drug dealer
looking for a new victim."

(Hey, kids?
W
ant a taste of Dickens?
It's awesome, man.
C
ome on. First chapters of Hard Times are free.
I know
you'll be back for The of Two Cities later.)

"That was different," Bastille said.

"No, it wasn't.
Look, you saved my life
–
not only that,
but without
y
ou, I wouldn't know what half these Lenses
are supposed to do."

S
he looked
up at me, brow furled. "You're doing it again.”

"What?"

"Encouraging people.
Like you did with Australia,
like you've done with all of us this entire trip.
W
hat is it
about y
ou,
S
medry?
You don't want to make any decisions,
but you take it upon yourse
lf to encourage us all anyway?”

I fell silent.
How had that happened?
This conversation
had been about her, and suddenly she'd thrown it back
in my face.
(I've found that throwing things in people's
faces
–
words, conversations, knives
–
is
one of Bastille's
specialties.)

I looked toward the light flickering faintly in the room
above.
It seemed haunting and inviting, and as I watched
it, I realized something about myself.
While I hated being
trapped because I worried about what might happen to
Kaz and Draulin, there was a larger cause of my frustration.

I
wanted to be helping.
I didn't want to be left out.
I
wanted to be in charge. Leaving things to others was tough
for me.

"I
do
want to be a leader, Bastille," I whispered.

She rustled, turning to look at me.

"I think all people, in their hearts, want to be heroes,"
I continued.
"But, the ones who
w
ant it most are the
outcasts.
The boys who sit in the backs of rooms, always
laughed at because they're different, because they stand
out, because . . . they break things."

I wondered if Kaz understood that there were more
ways than one to be abnormal. Everyone was strange in
some way
–
everyone
had weaknesses that could be
mocked.
I did know how he felt.
I'd felt it too.

I didn't want to go back.

“Yes, I want to be a hero,” I said. “Yes, I want to be the one leader. I used to sit and dream of being the one that people
looked to.
Of b
eing the one who could
fix
thing
s, rather
than break them."

"Well, you have it," she said.
"You're the heir to the
Smedry line.
You're in charge."

"I know.
And that terrifies me."

She regarded me.
She'd taken off her Warrior's Lenses,
and I could see the light f
rom above reflecting in her sol
emn eyes.

I sat down, shaking my head.
"I don't know what to
do, Bastille.
Being the kid who's always in trouble didn't
exactly prepare me for this.
How do I decide whether or
not to trade my most powerful weapon to save someone's
life?
I feel like . . .like I'm drowning.
Like I'm swimming
in water over my head and can't ever reach the top.

"I guess that's why I keep saying I don't want to lead.
Because I know if people pay
too
much attention to me,
they'll realize that I'm doing a terrible job."
I grimaced.
"J
ust like I am now.
You and I captured, your mother dying,
Kaz walking into danger, and Australia
–
who
knows
where she is."

I fell silent, feeling even more foolish now that I'd
explained it.
Yet, oddly, Bastille didn't laugh at me.
"I don't think you're doing a terrible job, Alcatraz
,”
she said.
"Being in charge is hard.
If everything goes well,
then nobody pays attention.
Yet, if something goes wrong,
you're always to blame.
I think you've done fine.
You just
need to be a little bit more sure of yourself."

I shrugged.
"Maybe.
What do you know of it, anyway?"

“
I..."

I glanced at her, the t
one in her voice making me curi
ous.
Some things about Bastille had never added up, in
my estimation.
She seemed to know too much.
Tr
ue, she'd
said that she'd wanted to be an Oculator, but that didn't
give me enough of an explanation.
There was more.

"You
do
know about it," I said.

Now it was her turn to shrug.
“
A little bit."

I cocked my head.

"Haven't you noticed?" she asked, looking at me. "My
mother doesn't have a prison name."

"So?"

"So, I do."

I scratched my head.