Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (20 page)

"You really
don't
know anything, do you?" she asked.

I snorted. "Well, excu
se me for being raised on a com
pletely different continent from you people.
What are you
talking about?"

"You are named Alcatraz after Alcatraz the First,"
Bastille said.
"The Smedries use names like that a lot,
names from their heritage.
The Librarians, then, have tried
to discredit those names by using them for prisons."

"You're not a Smedry," I said, "but you have a prison
name too."

"Yes, but my family is also . . . traditional.
They tend to
use famous names
over and over again,
just like your fam
ily does. That's not something that common people do."

I blinked.

Bastille rolled her eyes.
"My father's a nobleman,
Smedry," she said.
"That's what I'm trying to tell you.
I have
a traditional name because I'm his daughter.
My full name
is Bastille Vianitelle the Ninth."

“
Ah, right."
It's sort of like what rich people, kings, and
popes do in the Hushlands
–
they
reuse old names, then
just add a number.

"I grew up with everyone expecting me to be a leader,"
she said.
"Only, I'm not very well suited to it.
Not like you."

"
I
'm not well suited to it!"

She snorted.
"You are good with people, Smedry.
Me, I
don't
want
to lead people. They kind of annoy me."

"You should have become a novelist."

"Don't like the hours," she said.
“
Anyway, I
can tell you
that growing up learning h
ow to lead doesn't make any dif
ference.
A lifetime of training only makes you understand
just how inadequate you are."

We fell silent.

"So . . . what happened?" I asked. "How did you end up
as a Crystin?"

"My mother," Bastille said. "She's not noble, but she
is
a Crystin.
She always pushed me to become a Knight of
Crystallia, saying that my
father didn't need another use
less daughter hanging about.
I tried to prove her wrong,
but I'm too well-bred to do something simple, like become
a baker or a carpenter."

"So you tried to become an Oculator."

She nodded.
"I didn't tell anyone.
I'd heard that
Oculatory power was genetic, of course, but I intended to
prove everyone wrong.
I'd be the first Oculator in my line,
then my mother and father would be impressed.

"Well
, you know how that turned out.
So, I just joined
the Crystin, like my mother had always said I should.
I had
to give up my title and my money.
Now I'm real
i
zing
just
how foolish that decision was.
I make an even worse Crystin
than I did an Oculat
o
r."

She sighed, folding her arms again.
"The thing is, I
thought
–
for
a while
–
that
I
would
be good at it.
I made
knight faster than anyone ever had.
Then, I was immedi
ately sent out to protect the Old Smedry
–
which
was one
of the most dangerous, difficult assignments the
k
nights
had.
I
still
don't know why they picked that as my first job.
It's never made sense."

"It's almost like they were setting you up to fail."

She sat for a moment.
"I never thought about it that
way.
Why would anyone do such a thing?"

I shrugged.
"I don't know.
But, you have to admit, it
does sound suspicious.
Maybe someone in charge of giving
the assignments was jealous of how quickly you made it to
knight, and wanted to see you fall."

"At the cost, maybe, of the Old Smedry's life?"

I shrugged. "People do strange things sometimes,
Bastille."

"I still find it hard to b
elieve," she said. "Besides, m
y
mother was part of the group that makes those assignments."

"She seems like a hard one to please."

Bastille snorted.
"That's an understatement.
I made
knight, and all she could say
w
as,
'Make certain you live up
to the honor.'
I think she was
expecting
me to bungle my
first job
–
maybe that's why she came to get me herself."

I didn't reply, but somehow I knew we were thinking the same thing.
Bastille's own
mother
couldn't have
been the one to set her up to fail, could she?
That seemed a
stretch.
Of course, my mother had stolen my inheritance,
then sold me out to the Librarians.
So, maybe Bastille and
I were a well-matched pair.

I sat with my back against the wall, looking up, and my
mind turned away from Bastille's problems and back to
what I'd said earlier.
It had felt good to get the thoughts
out.
It had helped me, finally, sort out how I felt.
A few
months back, I would ha
ve settled for simply being nor
mal.
Now I knew that being a Smedry meant something.
The more time I spent filling that role, the more I wanted
to do it well.
To justi
fy
the name I bore, and live up to what
my grandfather and the others expected of me.

Perhaps you find that ironic.
There I was, deciding
bravely that I would take upon myself the mantle that
had been quite randomly thrust upon me.
Now, here I
am, writing my memoirs, trying as hard as I can to throw
off that very same mantle.

I
wanted
to be famous.
That should, in itself, be enough
to make you worried.
Never trust a man who wants to be a
hero.
W
e'll talk about this more in the next book.

"
W
e're quite the pair, aren't we?" Bastille asked, smiling
for the first time I'd seen since we fell down the shaft.

I smiled back.
"Yeah.
W
hy is it tha
t my best soul
searc
hing moments always come when I’
m trapped?"

"
S
ounds like you should be imprisoned more often."

I nodded.
Then, I jumped as something floated out of
the wall next to me.
"Gak!" I said before
I
realized it was
just a Curator.

"Here," it said, dropping a
leaf of paper to the ground.

"What's this?" I asked, picking it up.

"Your book."

It was the paper I'd written in the tomb, the inscription
about the Dark Talent.
That meant we'd been trapped for
nearly an hour.
Bastille was right.
Kaz
had probably a
lr
eady
reached the center of the Library.

The Curator floated away.

"Your mother," I said, folding up the paper. "If she gets
that crystal thing back, she'll be all right?"

Bastille nodded.

"So, since we're trapped here with no hope of rescue,
do you mind telling me what that crystal was?
You know,
to help pass the time?"

Bastille snorted, then stood up and pulled the silvery
hair up off the back of her neck.
She turned around, and
I could see a sparkling blue crystal set into the skin on
the back of her neck.
I could see it easily, as she still only
wore the tight black T-shirt tucked into the trousers of her
militaristic uniform.

"Wow," I said.

"Three kinds of crystals grow in Crystallia," she said,
letting her hair back down.
"The first we turn into swords
and daggers.
The second become Fleshstones, which are
what really make us into Crystin."

"What does it do?" I asked.

Bastille paused.
"Things," she finally replied.

"How wonderfully specific."

She flushed.
"It's kind of personal, Alcatraz.
It's because
of the Fleshstone that I can run so quickly.
Stuff like that."

"Okay," I said.
“
And the third type of crystal?"

"Also personal."

Great
,
I thought.

"It's not really important," she said.
As she moved to sit
down, I noticed something.
Her hand
–
the
one that had
been holding the dagger that had blocked the Frostbringer's
Lens
–
had
red and cracking skin.

"You okay?" I asked, nodding to her hand.

"I'll be fine," she said.
"Our daggers are made from
immature swordstones
–
they
aren't meant to hold out
against powerful Lenses for long.
A little of the ice got
around and hit my
f
ingers, but it's nothing that won't heal."

I wasn't as convinced.
"Maybe you should
–“

"Hush!" Bastille said suddenly, climbing to her feet.

I did so, frowning.
I followed Bastille's gaze up toward
the top of our hole.

"What?" I asked.

"I thought I heard something," she replied.

We waited tensely.
Finally, we saw shadows moving
above.
Bastille slowly pulled her dagger from its sheath,
and even in the darkness, I could see that it was laced with
cracks.
What she expected to do at such a distance was
beyond me.

Finally, a head leaned out over the hole.

"Hello?" Australia asked.
“
Anybody down there?"

I h
o
pe y
ou
didn't f
ind the last line of that previ
ous chapter to be exciting.
It was simply a convenient place
to end.

You see, chapter breaks are, in a way, like Smedry
Talents. They d
efy time and space.
(This, alone, should be
enough to prove to you that tra
ditional Hushlander phys
ics is just a load of unwashed underpants.)

Think about it.
By putting in a chapter break, I make
the book longer.
It takes extra
s
paces, extra pages.
Yet,
because of those chapter breaks, the book becomes shorter
as well.
You read it more quickly.
Even an unexciting hook,
like Australia's showing up, encourages you to quickly turn
the page and keep going.

Space becomes distorted when you read a book.
Time
has less relevance.
In fact, if you look closely, you might be
able to see golden dust floating down around you right
n
ow.
(And if you can't see it, you're just not trying hard
enough.
M
a
ybe you need to hit yourself on the
h
ead with
another big thick fantasy novel.)

"We're down here!" I yelled up to Australia.
Beside me,
Bastille looked relieved and slipped her dagger back into
its sheath.

“
Alcatraz?" Australia asked.
“
Uh . . . what are you doing
down there?"