Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

Chapter 18

I’d like to apologize. Way back in my first book of this series, near the end, I made fun of the fact that readers sometimes stay up way too late reading books. I know how it is. You get involved in a story and you don’t want to stop. Then the author does very unfair things, like confront his mother face-to-face at the end of the chapter, forcing you to turn to the next page and read what happens next.

This sort of thing is terribly unfair, and I shouldn’t be engaging in such activities. After all, there is one thing that every good book should have in it: that, of course, is a potty break.

Sure, we characters can go between chapters, but what about you? You have to wait until there’s a portion of the book that is slow and boring. And since those don’t exist in my books, I force you to wait until the story is done. That’s just not fair. And so get ready, here’s your chance. It’s time for the slow, boring part.

The furry panda is a noble creature, known for its excellent chess-playing skills. Pandas often play chess in exchange for lederhosen, which make up a large chunk of their preferred diet. They also make a fortune off their licensing deals, in which they shrink and stuff members of their clan and sell them as plush toys for young children. It is often theorized that one day all of these plush pandas will decide to rise up and rule the world. And that will be fun, because pandas rock.

Okay, done doing your business? Great. Now maybe we can finally get on with this story. (It’s really annoying to have to wait for you like that, so you should thank me for my patience.)

My mother took the book from me and waved eagerly to the freckled Dark Oculator. “Fitzroy, get over here.”

“Yes, yes, Shasta,” he said a little too eagerly. He regarded her adoringly. “What is it?”

“Read this,” she said, handing him the book and the Translator’s Lenses.

The young man grabbed the book and the Lenses; it disgusted me how eager he was to please my mother. I inched away, raising my hand toward the nearby wall.

“Hum, yes…” Fitzroy said. “Shasta, this is it! The very book we wanted!”

“Excellent,” my mother said, reaching for the book.

At that moment, I touched the glass wall and released a powerful blast of breaking power into it. Now, I knew I couldn’t break the glass—I was counting on that. In previous circumstances, I’d been able to use things like walls, tables, even smoke trails as a conduit. Like a wire carried electricity, an object could carry my breaking power within it, shattering something on the other end.

It was a risk, but I wasn’t going to leave my allies alone in a room full of Librarians. Particularly not when one of those allies was the official Alcatraz Smedry novelist. I had my legacy to think about.

Fortunately, it worked. The breaking power moved through the wall like ripples on a lake. The lamps on the walls shattered.

And everything plunged into darkness.

I leaped forward and snatched the book, which was being passed between Shasta and Fitzroy. Voices called out in shock and surprise, and I distinctly heard my mother curse. I rushed for the doorway, bursting out into the lit hallway beyond and quickly taking off my Disguiser’s Lenses.

There was a sudden crash from inside the room. Then a face appeared from the darkness. It was a Librarian thug. I cringed, preparing for a fight, but the man suddenly grimaced in pain and fell to the ground. Bastille jumped over him as he groaned and grabbed his leg; her brother, the prince, ran along behind her.

I ushered Rikers through the door, relieved that Bastille had understood my hand gestures. (Though I used the universal signal for “Wait here for a sec, then run for the door,” that signal also happens to be the universal hand sign for “I need a milk shake; I think I’ll find one in that direction.”)

“Where’s Folsom—” I began, but the critic soon appeared, carrying Rikers’s novel in his hand, prepared to open the cover and start dancing at a moment’s notice. He puffed, coming through the door as Bastille knocked aside another thug who was clever enough to make for the light. Only a few seconds had passed, but I began to worry. Where were Sing and Himalaya?

“I give this escape a three and a half out of seven and six-eighths, Alcatraz,” Folsom said nervously. “Clever in concept, but rather nerve-wracking in execution.”

“Noted,” I said tensely, glancing about. Where were those soldiers of ours? They were supposed to be out in the stairwell here, but it was empty. In fact, something seemed odd about the stairwell.

“Guys?” Rikers said. “I think—”

“There!” Bastille said, pointing as Sing and Himalaya appeared from the shadows of the room. The two rushed through the door, and I slammed it closed, using my breaking power to jam the lock.

“What was that crash?” I asked.

“I tripped into a couple rows of books,” Sing said, “throwing them down on the Librarians to keep them distracted.”

“Smart,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

We began to rush up the stairwell, the wooden steps creaking beneath our feet. “That was risky, Smedry,” Bastille said.

“You expected less of me?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “But why hand the book over to the Librarian?”

“I got it back,” I said, holding it up. “Plus, now we know for sure that this is the volume they wanted.”

Bastille cocked her head. “Huh. You are clever sometimes.”

I smiled. Unfortunately, the truth is, none of us were being very clever at that moment. None of us but Rikers, of course—and we’d chosen to ignore him. That’s usually a safe move.

Except of course when you’re rushing up the wrong stairwell. It finally dawned on me, and I froze in place, causing the others to stumble to a halt.

“What is it, Alcatraz?” Sing asked.

“The stairs,” I said. “They’re wooden.”

“So?”

“They were stone before.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say!” Prince Rikers exclaimed. “I wonder how they turned the steps to a different material.”

I suddenly felt a sense of horror. The door was just above us. I walked up nervously and pushed on it.

It opened into a medieval-looking castle chamber completely different from the one that had held our soldiers. This room had red carpeting, library stacks in the distance, and was filled with a good two hundred Librarian soldiers.

“Shattering Glass!” Bastille cursed, slamming the door in front of me. “What’s going on?”

I ignored her for the moment, rushing back down the steps. The Librarians locked inside the archives room were pounding on the door, trying to break it down. Now that I paused to consider, the landing right in front of the door looked very different from the way it had before. It was far larger, and it had a door at the left side.

As the others piled down the steps after me, I threw open the door to my left. I stepped into an enormous chamber filled with wires, panes of glass, and scientists in white lab coats. There were large containers on the sides of the room. Containers that I’m sure were filled with brightsand.

“What in the Sands is going on?” Folsom demanded, peeking in behind me.

I stood, stunned. “We’re not in the same building anymore, Folsom.”

“What?”

“They swapped us! The archive filled with books—the entire glass room—they swapped it for another room using Transporter’s Glass! They weren’t digging a tunnel to get in, they were digging to the corners so they could affix glass there and teleport the room away!”

It was brilliant. The glass was unbreakable, the stairwell guarded. But what if you could take the whole room and replace it with another one? You could search out the book you needed, then swap the rooms back, and nobody would be the wiser.

The door behind us broke open, and I turned to see a group of muscular Librarians force their way into the stairwell. I could just barely make out Bastille tensing for combat, and Folsom moved to open the novel with the music.

“No,” I said to them. “We’re beaten. Don’t waste your energy fighting.”

Part of me found it strange that they listened to me. Even Bastille obeyed my command. I would have expected the prince to preempt me and take charge, but he seemed perfectly content to stand and watch. He even seemed excited.

“Wonderful!” he whispered to me. “We’ve been captured!”

Great, I thought as my mother pushed her way out through the broken door. She saw me and smiled—a rare expression for her. It was the smile of a cat who’d just found a mouse to play with.

“Alcatraz,” she said.

“Mother,” I replied coldly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Tie them up,” she said to her thugs. “And fetch that book for me.”

The thugs pulled out swords and herded us into the room with the scientists.

“Why’d you stop me?” Bastille hissed.

“Because it wouldn’t have done any good,” I whispered back. “We don’t even know where we are—we could be back in the Hushlands, for all we know. We have to get back to the Royal Archives.”

I waited for it, but nobody said the inevitable “not a library.” I realized that nobody else could hear us—which is kind of the point of whispering in the first place. (That and sounding more mysterious.)

“How do we get back, then?” Bastille asked.

I glanced at the equipment around us. We had to activate the silimatic machines and swap the rooms again. But how?

Before I could ask Bastille about this, the thugs pulled us apart and bound us with ropes. This wasn’t too big a deal—my Talent could snap ropes in a heartbeat, and if the thugs assumed that we were tied up, then maybe they’d get lax and give us a better chance for escaping.

The Librarians began to rifle through our pockets, depositing our possessions—including all of my Lenses—on a low table. Then they forced us to the ground, which was sterile and white. The room itself bustled with activity as Librarians and scientists checked monitors, wires, and panes of glass.

My mother flipped through the book on Smedry history, though of course she couldn’t read it. Her lackey, Fitzroy, was more interested in my Lenses. “The other pair of Translator’s Lenses,” he said, picking them up. “These will be very nice to have.”

He slid them into his pocket, continuing on to the others. “Oculator’s Lenses,” he said, “boring.” He set those aside. “A single, untinted Lens,” he said, looking over the Truthfinder’s Lens. “It’s probably worthless.” He handed the Lens to a scientist, who snapped it into a spectacle frame.

“Ah!” Fitzroy continued. “Are those Disguiser’s Lenses? Now these are valuable!”

The scientist returned the spectacles with the single Truthfinder’s Lens in them, but Fitzroy set this aside, picking up the violet Disguiser’s Lenses and putting them on. He immediately shifted shapes, melding to look like a much more muscular and handsome version of himself. “Hum, very nice,” he said, inspecting his arms.

Why didn’t I think of that? I thought.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Shasta said, pulling something out of her purse. She tossed a few glass bands to her Librarian thugs. “Put those on that one, that one, and that one.” She pointed at me, Folsom, and Sing.

The three Smedrys. That seemed ominous. Perhaps it was time to try an escape. But … we were surrounded and we still didn’t know how to use the machines to get us back. Before I could make up my mind, one of the thugs snapped a band on my arm and locked it.

I didn’t feel any different.

“What you aren’t feeling,” my mother said offhandedly, “is the loss of your Talent. That’s Inhibitor’s Glass.”

“Inhibitor’s Glass is a myth!” Sing said, aghast.

“Not according to the Incarna people,” my mother said, smiling. “You’d be amazed what we’re learning from these Forgotten Language books.” She snapped the book in her hands closed. I could see a smug satisfaction in her smile as she pulled open a drawer beneath the table and dropped the book in it. She closed the drawer, then—oddly—she picked up one of the rings of Inhibitor’s Glass and snapped it onto her own arm.

“Handy things, these rings,” she said. “Smedry Talents are far more useful when you can determine exactly when they are to activate.” My mother had my father’s same Talent—losing things—which she’d gained by marriage. My grandfather said he thought she’d never learned to control it, so I could guess why she’d want to wear Inhibitor’s Glass.

“You people,” Sing said, struggling as the thugs snapped a ring on his arm. “All you want to do is control. You want everything to be normal and boring, no freedom or uncertainty.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” my mother said, putting her hands behind her back.

This was getting bad. I cursed. I should have let Bastille fight, then tried to find a way to activate the swap during the confusion. Without our Talents, we were in serious trouble. I tested my Talent anyway, but got nothing. It was a very odd feeling. Like trying to start your car, but only getting a pitiful grinding sound.

I wiggled my arm, trying to see if I could get the ring of Inhibitor’s Glass off, but it was on tight. I ground my teeth. Maybe I could use the Lenses on the table somehow.

Unfortunately, the only Lenses left were my basic Oculator’s Lenses and the single Truthfinder’s Lens. Great, I thought, wishing—not for the first time—that Grandpa Smedry had given me some Lenses that I could use in a fight.

Still, I had to work with what I had. I stretched my neck, wiggling to the side, and finally managed to touch the side of the Truthfinder’s spectacles with my cheek. I could activate the Lens as long as I was touching the frames.

“You are a monster,” Sing said, still talking to my mother.

“A monster?” Shasta asked. “Because I like order? I think you’ll agree with our way, once you see what we can do for the Free Kingdoms. Aren’t you Sing Sing Smedry the anthropologist? I hear that you’re fascinated by the Hushlands. Why speak such harsh words about Librarians if you’re so fascinated by our lands?”

Sing fell silent.

“Yes,” Shasta said. “Everything will be better when the Librarians rule.”

I froze. I could just barely see her through the side of the Lens by my head on the table. And those words she’d just spoken—they weren’t completely true. When she’d said them, to my eyes she’d released a patch of air that was muddied and gray. It was as if my mother wasn’t sure that she was telling the truth.

“Lady Fletcher,” one of the Librarian thugs said, approaching. “I have informed my superiors of our captives.”

Shasta frowned. “I … see.”

“You will of course deliver them to us,” the Librarian soldier said. “I believe that is Prince Rikers Dartmoor—he could prove to be a very valuable captive.”

“These are my captives, Captain,” Shasta said. “I’ll decide what to do with them.”

“Oh? This equipment and these scientists belong to the Scrivener’s Bones. All you were promised was the book. You said we could have anything else in the room we wanted. Well, these people are what we demand.”

Scrivener’s Bones, I thought. That explains all the wires. The Scrivener’s Bones were the Librarian sect who liked to mix Free Kingdoms technology and Hushlander technology. That was probably why there were wires leading from the brightsand containers. Rather than just opening the containers and bathing the glass in light, the Librarians used wires and switches.

That could be a big help. It meant there might be a way to use the machinery to activate the swap.

“We are very insistent,” the leader of the Librarian soldiers said. “You can have the book and the Lenses. We will take the captives.”

“Very well,” my mother snapped. “You can have them. But I want half of my payment back as compensation.”

I felt a stab inside my chest. So she would sell me. As if I were nothing.

“But Shasta,” the young Librarian Oculator said, stepping up to her. “You’ll give them up? Even the boy?”

“He means nothing to me.”

I froze.

It was a lie.

I could see it plain and clear through the corner of the Lens. When she spoke the words, black sludge fell from her lips.

“Shasta Smedry,” the soldier said, smiling. “The woman who would marry just to get a Talent, and who would spawn a child just to sell him to the highest bidder!”

“Why should I feel anything for the son of a Nalhallan? Take the boy. I don’t care.”

Another lie.

“Let’s just get on with this,” she finished. Her manner was so controlled, so calm. You’d never have known that she was lying through her teeth.

But … what did it mean? She couldn’t care for me. She was a terrible, vile person. Monsters like her didn’t have feelings.

She couldn’t care about me. I didn’t want her to. It was so much more simple to assume that she was heartless.

“What about Father?” I found myself whispering. “Do you hate him too?”

She turned toward me, meeting my eyes. She parted her lips to speak, and I thought I caught a trail of black smoke begin to slip out and pour toward the ground.

Then it stopped. “What’s he doing?” she snapped, pointing. “Fitzroy, I thought I told you to keep those Lenses secured!”

The Oculator jumped in shock, rushing over and grabbing the Truthfinder’s Lens and pocketing it. “Sorry,” he said. He took the other Lenses and placed them in another pocket of his coat.

I leaned back, feeling frustrated. What now?

I was the brave and brilliant Alcatraz Smedry. Books had been written about me. Rikers was smiling, as if this were all a big adventure. And I could guess why. He didn’t feel threatened. He had me to save him.

It was then that I understood what Grandpa Smedry had been trying to tell me. Fame itself wasn’t a bad thing. Praise wasn’t a bad thing. The danger was assuming that you really were what everyone imagined you to be.

I’d come into this presuming that my Talent could get us out. Well, now it couldn’t. I’d brought us into danger because I’d let my self-confidence make me overconfident.

And you all are to blame for this, in part. This is what your adoration does. You create for yourselves heroes using our names, but those fabrications are so incredible, so elevated that the real thing can never live up to them. You destroy us, consume us.

And I am what’s left over when you’re done.