Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

Chapter 3

I’d like to make something clear. I have been unfair to you. That is to be expected, liar that I am.

In the first book of this series, I made some sweeping generalizations about Librarians, many of which are not completely true.

However, I didn’t take the time to explain that they’re not the only kind of Librarians. You may, therefore, have assumed that all Librarians are evil cultists who want to take over the world, enslave humanity, and sacrifice people on their altars.

This is completely untrue. Not all Librarians are evil cultists. Some Librarians are instead vengeful undead who want to suck out your soul.

I’m glad we cleared that up.

“You want to do what?” Bastille’s mother demanded.

“Fly to the Library of Alexandria,” I said.

“Out of the question, my lord. We can’t possibly do that.”

“We have to,” I said.

Australia turned toward me, leaving one hand on the glowing glass square that allowed her, somehow, to pilot Dragonaut. “Alcatraz, why would you want to go to Alexandria? It’s not a very friendly place.”

“Grandpa Smedry is there,” I said. “That means we need to go too.”

“He didn’t say he was going to Egypt,” Australia said, glancing again at the crumpled note that he’d sent.

“The Library of Alexandria is one of the most dangerous places in the Hushlands, Lord Smedry,” Draulin continued. “Most ordinary Librarians will only kill or imprison you. The Curators of Alexandria, however, will steal your soul. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to be placed in such danger.”

The tall, armored woman still stood with her arms behind her back. She kept her silver hair long but in a utilitarian ponytail, and she did not meet my eyes, but instead stared directly forward.

Now, I’d like to point out that what I did next was completely logical. Really. There’s a law of the universe—unfamiliar to most people in the Hushlands but quite commonly known to Free Kingdoms scientists. It is called the Law of Inevitable Occurrence.

In layman’s terms, this law states that some things simply have to happen. If there’s a red button on a console with the words don’t push taped above it, someone will push it. If there’s a gun hanging conspicuously above Chekhov’s fireplace, someone is going to end up shooting it (probably at Nietzsche).

And if there’s a stern woman telling you what to do—yet at the same time calling you “my lord”—you’re going to simply have to figure out how far you can push her.

“Jump up and down on one foot,” I said, pointing at Draulin.

“Excuse me?” she asked, flushing.

“Do it. That’s an order.”

And she did, looking rather annoyed.

“You can stop,” I said.

She did so. “Would you mind telling me what that was about, Lord Smedry?”

“Well, I wanted to figure out if you’d do what I commanded.”

“Of course I will,” Draulin said. “As the oldest child of Attica Smedry, you are the heir to the pure Smedry line. You outrank both your cousin and your uncle, which means you are in command of this vessel.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “So that means I can decide where we go, right?”

Bastille’s mother fell silent. “Well,” she finally said, “that is technically true, my lord. However, I have been charged with safely bringing you back to Nalhalla. Asking me to take you to such a dangerous location would be foolhardy, and—”

“Yeah, that’s just spiffy,” I said. “Australia, let’s get going. I want to be in Egypt as soon as possible.”

Bastille’s mother closed her mouth, growing even more red in the face. Australia only shrugged and reached over to put her hand on another glass square. “Um, take us to the Library of Alexandria,” she said.

The giant glass dragon shifted slightly, beginning to undulate in a different direction, six wings flapping in succession.

“That’s it?” I asked.

Australia nodded. “It’ll still take us a few hours to get there, though. We’ll fly up over the pole and down into the Middle East, rather than out toward Nalhalla.”

“Well, good, then,” I said, feeling a little anxious as I realized what I’d done. Only a short time back, I’d been eager to get to safety. Now I was determined to head to a place that everyone else was telling me was insanely, ridiculously dangerous?

What was I doing? What business did I have taking command and giving orders? Feeling self-conscious, I left the cockpit again. Bastille trailed along behind me. “I’m not sure why I did that,” I confessed as we walked.

“Your grandfather might be in danger.”

“Yeah, but what are we going to do about it?”

“We helped him in the last library infiltration,” she said. “Saved him from Blackburn.”

I fell silent, walking down the glass corridor. Yes, we had saved Grandpa Smedry … but … well, something told me that Grandpa Smedry would have gotten away from Blackburn eventually. The old Smedry had lived for more than a century, and—from what I understood—had managed to wiggle out of plenty of predicaments far worse than that one.

He’d been the one to fight Blackburn with the Lenses—I’d been helpless. True, I’d managed to break the Firebringer’s Lens and trick Blackburn in the end. But I hadn’t really known what I was doing. My victories seemed more like happenstance than anything else. And now I was heading into danger yet again?

Nevertheless, it was done. Dragonaut had changed course, and we were on our way. We’ll look around outside the place, I thought. If it seems too dangerous, we don’t have to go in.

I was about to explain this decision to Bastille when a sudden voice spoke from behind us. “Bastille! We’ve changed course. What’s that all about?”

I turned in shock. A short man, perhaps four feet tall, was walking down the corridor toward us. He most certainly hadn’t been there before, and I couldn’t figure out where he’d come from.

The man wore rugged clothing: a leather jacket, his tunic tucked into sturdy pants, a pair of boots. He had a wide face with a broad chin and dark, curly hair.

“A fairy!” I said immediately.

The short man stopped, looking confused. “That’s a new one,” he noted.

“What kind are you?” I asked. “Leprechaun? Elf?”

The short man raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Bastille. “Hazelnuts, Bastille,” he swore. “Who’s this clown?”

“Kaz, this is your nephew Alcatraz.”

The short man glanced back at me. “Oh … I see. He seems a bit more dense than I assumed he’d be.”

I flushed. “You’re … not a fairy, then?”

He shook his head.

“Are you a dwarf? Like in Lord of the Rings?”

He shook his head.

“You’re just a … midget?”

He regarded me with a flat stare. “You realize that midget isn’t a good term to use, don’t you? Even most Hushlanders know that. Midget is what people used to call my kind when they stuck us in freak shows.”

I paused. “What should I call you, then?”

“Well, Kaz is preferable. Kazan is my full name, though the blasted Librarians finally named a prison that a while back.”

Bastille nodded. “In Russia.”

The short man sighed. “Regardless, if you absolutely have to reference my height, I generally think that short person works fine. Anyway, is someone going to explain why we changed course?”

I was still too busy being embarrassed to answer. I hadn’t intended to insult my uncle. (Fortunately, I’ve gotten much better at this over the years. I’m now quite good at insulting people intentionally, and I can even do it in languages you Free Kingdomers don’t speak. So there, you dagblad.)

Thankfully, Bastille spoke up and answered Kaz’s question. “We got word that your father is at the Library of Alexandria. We think he might be in trouble.”

“So we’re heading there?” Kaz asked.

Bastille nodded.

Kaz perked up. “Wonderful!” he said. “Finally some good news on this trip.”

“Wait,” I said. “That’s good news?”

“Of course it is! I’ve wanted to explore that place for decades. Never could find a good enough excuse. I’ll go get prepared!” He took off down the corridor toward the cockpit.

“Kaz?” Bastille called. He stopped, glancing back.

“Your room is that way.” She pointed down a side corridor.

“Coconuts,” he swore under his breath. Then he headed the way she’d indicated.

“That’s right,” I said. “His Talent. Getting lost.”

Bastille nodded. “What’s worse is that he generally acts as our guide.”

“How does that work?”

“Oddly,” she said, continuing down the corridor.

I sighed. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“You seem to have that effect on people when they first meet you. I didn’t like you very much at first either.” She eyed me. “Still not sure if that’s changed or not.”

“You’re so kind.” As we walked down the dragon’s snakelike body, I noticed a large glow coming from between the shoulder blades of a pair of wings above. The glass here sparkled and shifted, as if there were a lot of surfaces and delicate parts moving about. At the center of the mass was a deep, steady glow—like a smoldering fire. The light was being shaded by occasional moving pieces of glass that weren’t translucent. So, every few seconds, the light would grow darker—then grow brighter again.

I pointed up. “What’s that?”

“The engine,” Bastille said.

There weren’t any of the noises I had come to associate with a running motor—no hum, no moving pistons, no burning flame. Not even any steam. “How does it work?”

Bastille shrugged. “I’m no silimatic engineer.”

“You’re no Oculator either,” I noted. “But you know enough about Lenses to surprise most people.”

“That’s because I studied Lenses. Never did care much about silimatics. Come on. Do you want to get to your room or not?”

I did, and I was tired, so I let her lead me away.

Turns out that silimatic engines aren’t really that complex. They’re actually a fair bit more easy to understand than ordinary Hushlander engines.

It all involves a special kind of sand, named brightsand, which gives off a glow when it’s heated. That light then causes certain types of glass to do strange things. Some will rise into the air when exposed to silimatic light, others will drop downward. So, all you have to do is control which glass sees the light at which time, and you’ve got an engine.

I know you Hushlanders probably find that ridiculous. You ask yourselves, “If sand is that valuable, why is it so commonplace?” You are, of course, the victims of a terrible conspiracy. (Don’t you ever get tired of that?)

The Librarians take great pains to make people ignore sand. They have, at great expense, flooded the Hushlands with dullsand—one of the few types of sand that doesn’t really do anything at all, even when you melt it. What better way is there to make people ignore something than to make it seem commonplace?

Don’t even get me started on the economic value of belly button lint.

We finally reached my quarters. The body of the dragon-snake was a good twenty feet wide, so there was plenty of room along its length for rooms. I noticed, however, that all of the walls were translucent.

“Not a lot of privacy here, is there?” I asked.

Bastille rolled her eyes, then placed her hand on a panel on the wall. “Dark,” she said. The wall immediately grew black. “We had it on translucent so that it would be easier to hide from people.”

“Oh,” I said. “So, this is technology and not magic?”

“Of course it is. Anyone can do it, after all. Not just Oculators.”

“But Australia is the one flying the dragon.”

“That’s not because she’s an Oculator, it’s because she’s a pilot. Look, I’ve got to get back to the cockpit. My mother’s going to be angry at me for taking so long.”

I glanced back at her. It seemed like something was really bothering her. “I’m sorry I broke your sword,” I said.

She shrugged. “I didn’t ever really deserve it in the first place.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everyone knows it,” Bastille said, her voice betraying more than a little bitterness. “Even my mother felt that I should never have been dubbed a full knight. She didn’t think that I was ready.”

“She sure is stern.”

“She hates me.”

I looked over at her, shocked. “Bastille! I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. She’s your mother.”

“She’s ashamed of me,” Bastille said. “Always has been. But … I don’t know why I’m talking to you about this. Go take a nap, Smedry. Leave the important things to people who know what they’re doing.”

With that, she stalked away, heading back toward the cockpit. I sighed, but pulled open the glass door and walked into the room. There was no bed, though I did find a rolled-up mattress in the corner. The room, like the rest of the dragon, undulated up and down, each flap of the wings sending a ripple along the entire length of the body.

It had been a bit sickening at first, but I was getting used to it. I sat down, staring out the glass wall of my room. It was still transparent—Bastille had only made the one behind me black.

Clouds spread out below me, extending into the distance, white and lumpy, like the landscape of some alien planet—or perhaps like mashed potatoes that hadn’t been whipped quite long enough. The sun, setting in the distance, was a brilliant yellow pat of butter, slowly melting as it disappeared.

As that analogy might have indicated, I was getting a bit hungry.

Still, I was safe. And I was finally free. Out of the Hushlands, ready to begin my journey to the lands where I’d been born. True, we’d stop in Egypt to pick up my grandfather, but I still felt relieved to be moving.

I was on my way. On my way to find my father, perhaps on my way to discover who I really was.

I’d eventually realize I didn’t like what I found. But for the moment, I felt good. And—despite the glass beneath me showing a drop straight down, despite my hunger, despite our destination—I found myself feeling relaxed. I drifted off, curling up on the mattress and falling asleep.

I woke up when a missile exploded a few feet from my head.