Alcatraz versus the Evil Librarians Page 11

  Blackburn turned. “Your man drew a gun on a Smedry.”

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Ms. Fletcher said. “Someone must have bribed him – someone from one of the other factions, I’d guess. The Order of the Shattered Lens, perhaps? We won’t know for certain until the interrogation is complete, but I suspect that they were afraid that you’d manage to recruit the boy.”

  Recruit me? That comment made me cock my head. However, there was something more pressing in that statement. It implied that Ms. Fletcher hadn’t wanted me killed. For some reason, that made me relieved, though I knew it was foolish.

  Down below, Blackburn shook his head. “You should have gone yourself to collect him, Shasta.”

  “I intended to go along,” Ms. Fletcher said. “But…”

  “But what?”

  She was silent for a moment. “I lost my keys,” she said.

  I frowned. It seemed like an odd comment to make. Blackburn, however, simply laughed at this. “It still has the better of you, doesn’t it?”

  I could see Ms. Fletcher flushing. “I don’t see what problem you have working with me. The man who tried to shoot the boy was working for someone else. We should be focusing on discovering what those sands do.”

  “The problem is, Shasta,” Blackburn said, growing solemn again, “this operation was sloppy. When my people are sloppy, it makes me look incompetent. I’m not very fond of that.” He paused, then looked at her. “This is not a time we can spare mistakes. Old Smedry is in this town somewhere.”

  Ms. Fletcher paused. “Him? You think it was him?”

  “Who else?” Blackburn asked.

  “There are a lot of elderly Oculators, Radrian,” she said.

  Blackburn shook his head. “I should think that you, of all people, would recognize the Old One’s handiwork. He’s in the city, after the same thing that we were.”

  “Well,” Ms. Fletcher said. “If Leavenworth was here, he’s gone now. He’ll have the boy out of Inner Libraria before we can track him down.”

  “Perhaps,” Blackburn said quietly.

  I squirmed. As I listened, I’d revised my earlier opinion of Blackburn. I didn’t like this man. Blackburn seemed too… thoughtful. Careful.

  Dangerous.

  “I’ve always been curious,” Blackburn said, as if to himself. “Why did they leave a Smedry of the pure line to be raised in Inner Libraria? Old Leavenworth must have known that we would find the boy. That we would watch him, control him. It seems like an odd move, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ms. Fletcher shrugged. “Perhaps they just didn’t want him. Considering his… parentage.”

  What? I thought. Say more on that!

  But Blackburn didn’t. He just shook his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But then this child seems to have an inordinately powerful Talent. And there were always the sands. Old Smedry must have known, as we did, that the sands would arrive on the boy’s thirteenth birthday.”

  “So, they used the boy as bait for the sands,” Ms. Fletcher said. “But we got to them first.”

  “And old Smedry ended up with the child. Who gained the better half of the deal, I wonder?”

  Tell me where the sands are! I thought. Say something useful!

  “As for the sands,” Ms. Fletcher said. “There is the matter of payment….”

  Blackburn turned, and I caught a flash of emotion on his face. Anger?

  Ms. Fletcher raised a finger. “You don’t own me, Blackburn. Don’t presume to think that you do.”

  “You’ll get paid, woman,” Blackburn said, smiling.

  It was not the type of smile one wanted to see. It was dark. Dark as the footprints I had followed. Dark as the hatred in a man’s eyes the moment he does something terrible to another person. Dark as an unlit street on a silent night, when you know something is out there, watching you.

  It was from this smile that I realized where Radrian Blackburn got the title “Dark” Oculator.

  “You would sell the child too, wouldn’t you?” Blackburn said, still smiling as he removed his monocle, rubbed it clean, then placed it in his pocket. “You would pass him off for wealth, as you did with the sands. Sometimes you impress even me, Fletcher.”

  Ms. Fletcher shrugged.

  Blackburn placed a different monocle onto his eye.

  Wait, I thought. What am I forgetting?

  And then I realized what it was. Ms. Fletcher’s foot prints, along with Blackburn’s, shone below. I was still wearing the Tracker’s Lenses. Cursing quietly, I pulled them off, then switched them for my Oculator’s Lenses.

  Blackburn glowed with a vibrant black cloud. He crackled with power, giving off an aura so strong that I had to blink against the terrible shining darkness.

  If Blackburn gave off an aura like that… what did I give off?

  Blackburn smiled, turning directly toward the place where I was hiding with the others. Then his monocle flashed with a burst of power.

  I immediately fell unconscious.

  Chapter 11

  You probably assume you know what is going to happen next: me, tied to an altar, about to get sacrificed. Unfortunately, you’re wrong. The story hasn’t gotten to that part yet.

  This revelation may annoy you. It may even frustrate you. If it does, then I’ve achieved my purpose. However, before you throw this book against the wall, you should understand something about storytelling.

  Some people assume that authors write books because we have vivid imaginations and want to share our vision. Other people assume that authors write because we are bursting with stories, and therefore must scribble those stories down in moments of creative propondidty.

  Both groups of people are completely wrong. Authors write books for one, and only one, reason: because we like to torture people.

  Now, actual torture is frowned upon in civilized society. Fortunately, the authorial community has discovered in storytelling an even more powerful – and more fulfilling – means of causing agony in others. We write stories. And by doing so, we engage in a perfectly legal method of doing all kinds of mean and terrible things to our readers.

  Take, for instance, the word I used above. Propondidty. There is no such word – I made it up. Why? Because it amused me to think of thousands of readers looking up a nonsense word in their dictionaries.

  Authors also create lovable, friendly characters – then proceed to do terrible things to them (like throw them in unsightly, Librarian-controlled dungeons). This makes readers feel hurt and worried for the characters. The simple truth is that authors like making people squirm. If this weren’t the case, all novels would be filled completely with cute bunnies having birthday parties.

  So, now you know the reason why I – one of the most wealthy and famous people in the Free Kingdoms – would bother writing a book. This is the only way I can prove to all of you that I’m not the heroic savior that you think I am. If you don’t believe what I’m telling you, then ask yourself this: would any decent, kindhearted individual become a writer? Of course not.

  I know how this story ends. I know what really happened to my parents. I know the true secret of the Sands of Rashid. I know how I finally ended up suspended over a bubbling pit of acid magma, tied to a flaming altar, staring at my reflection in the twisted, cracked dagger of a Librarian executioner.

  But I am not a nice person. And so, I’m not going to reveal any of these things to you. Not yet, anyway.

  So there.

  “I can’t believe how stupid I am!” Bastille snapped.

  I blinked, slowly coming awake. I was lying on something hard.

  “I should have realized that Alcatraz would have an aura,” Bastille continued. “It was so obvious!”

  “He only just started using Oculator’s Lenses, Bastille,” Sing said. “You couldn’t have known he’d have an aura already.”

  She shook her head. “I was sloppy. I just… have trouble thinking of that idiot as an Oculator. He doesn’t seem to know anything.”


  I groaned and opened my eyes, discovering a bland stone ceiling above me. The something hard I was lying on turned out to be the ground. And no, it didn’t want to be friends with me.

  “What happened?” I asked, rubbing my forehead.

  “Shocker’s Lens. They cause a flash of light that knocks out anyone who’s looking at the Oculator.”

  I grunted, sitting. “I’ll have to get a set of those.”

  “They’re very difficult to use,” Bastille said. “I doubt you could manage it.”

  “Thanks for the confidence,” I grumbled. We were in a cell, apparently. It felt more like a dungeon than a prison. There was a pile of straw to one side, apparently to use for sleeping, and there didn’t appear to be any “facilities” besides a bucket by the wall.

  It was certainly not a place I wanted to spend any extended period time. Especially in mixed company.

  I stumbled to my feet. My jacket was gone, as were Sing’s bag of weapons and Bastille’s handbag. “Is there anyone out there?” I asked quietly. The cell had three stone walls, while the front was set with more modern-style cagelike bars.

  “One guard,” Bastille said. “Warrior.”

  I nodded, then took a deep breath and walked up to the front of the cell. I put one hand on the bars and activated my Talent.

  Or, at least, I tried to. Nothing happened.

  Bastille snorted. “It won’t work, Smedry. Those bars are made from Reinforcer’s Glass. Things like Smedry Talents and Oculator powers won’t affect them.”

  “Oh,” I said, lowering my hand.

  “What did you expect to do anyway?” she snapped. “Save us? What about the soldier out there? What about the Dark Oculator, who is in the room next door?”

  “I didn’t think – “

  “No. No, you Smedrys never think! You make all this talk about ‘seeing’ and ‘information,’ but you never do anything useful. You don’t plan, you just go. And you drag the rest of us along with you!”

  Shy spun and walked as far from me as she could, then sat down on the floor, not looking at me.

  I stood silent, a little stupefied.

  “Don’t mind her, Alcatraz,” Sing said quietly, joining me at the front of the cell. “She’s just a little angry with herself for letting us get caught.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” I said. “It was mine.”

  It was mine. Not words I’d often said. I was a little surprised to hear them come out of my mouth.

  “Actually,” Sing said, “it’s really not any of our fault. You were right to suggest following Blackburn – he was probably our best chance of finding the sands. But, well, this is how things turned out.”

  Sing sighed, running his hand along one of the bars. I reached out and felt one too, noting now that Bastille had been right – the bar didn’t quite feel like iron. It was too smooth.

  “There were a few Smedrys who could have gotten through these bars, Reinforcer’s Glass or no,” Sing said. “Ah, to have a Talent like that…”

  “I think your Talent is pretty useful,” I said. “It saved us down below, and that stumble you did to create a distraction was great. I’ve never seen anything so amazing!”

  Sing smiled. “I know you’re just saying that. But I appreciate it anyway.”

  We stood quietly for a moment, and I found myself feeling frustrated, and more than a little guilty. Despite what Sing had said, I felt responsible for getting us captured. Slowly, the real weight of what was going on began to press against me.

  I’d been imprisoned by the type of people who sent armed gunmen to collect young boys from their homes – people who included a man so evil, he left dark footprints burning on the ground. Blackburn obviously could have killed me if he’d wanted. That meant he had kept me alive for a reason. And I was growing more and more certain I didn’t want to know what that reason was.

  It had been a long time since I’d felt true dread. I’d learned over the years to be a bit callous – I’d had to, with my foster parents abandoning me so often. In that moment, however, dread pushed through my shell.

  Bastille was still sulking in the back, so I glanced at Sing, looking for some sort of comfort. “Sing? Our ancestors – could you tell me about some of them?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well,” Sing said, rubbing his chin. “There was Libby Smedry – she was quite the capable one. I’ve often wished to have a Talent half as grand as hers.”

  “And it was?”

  “She could get impossible amounts of water on the floor when she did the dishes,” Sing said, sighing slightly. “She single-handedly ended the drought in Kalbeeze during the fourth-third century – and she did it while keeping all their dishware sparkling clean!”

  He smiled wistfully. “Also, I suppose everyone knows about Alcatraz Smedry the Seventh – he would be about sixteen generations removed from you. The Librarians weren’t around then, but Dark Oculators were. Alcatraz Seven had the Talent to make annoying noises at inappropriate times. He defeated enemy after enemy – you see, he distracted the Dark Oculators so much that they couldn’t concentrate hard enough to work their Lenses!”

  Sing sighed. “Thinking about those kinds of Talents always makes tripping seem so bland.”

  “Breaking things isn’t all that great either,” I said.

  “No, Alcatraz. Breaking things – now that’s a real Talent. One of the great old talents, talked about in the legends. I know I shouldn’t really complain about my power – I should be happy to have anything. But you… it would be a true shame to speak ill of a Talent like that. And it couldn’t have been given to a better Smedry.

  A better Smedry…

  Sing smiled at me encouragingly, and glanced away. I’m getting too attached to him, I thought. To all of them – Grandpa Smedry, Sing, even Bastille.

  “Come on,” Sing said. “Don’t look so glum.”

  “You don’t really know me, Sing,” I found myself saying. “I’m not a good person.”

  “Nonsense!” Sing said.

  I leaned against the bars of the cell, glancing out – not that there was much to look at. A simple stone wall stood across from the cell. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, Sing. The… breaking. The pain I’ve brought to good people – people who just wanted to give me a home.”

  Sing shrugged. “Actually, Alcatraz, Grandpa Smedry spoke of you sometimes. He talked about the… mishaps that happened around you. He said he thought it might be related to your Talent, and turns out it was. Not your fault at all!”

  Why did you burn down your foster parents’ kitchen? Grandpa Smedry had asked. It seems like a perversion of your Talent….

  “No,” I said. “It was my fault, Sing. I didn’t break simple, ordinary things. I broke the things that were the most valuable to people who cared for me. I made them hate me. On purpose.”

  “No,” Sing said. “No, that doesn’t sound like something a Smedry could do.”

  “Every family has its black sheep, Sing,” I said. “I’m a… broken Smedry. Maybe that’s why the Dark Oculator didn’t kill me. Maybe he knows that I’m not noble like the rest of you. Maybe he knows that he might be able to pull me to his side. Perhaps I’d be better there.”

  Sing fell silent. I waited for him to look horrified or betrayed.

  After a few moments, Sing raised a hand and put it on my shoulder. “You’re still my cousin. Even if you’ve done bad things, that doesn’t make you a Dark Oculator. Anything you’ve done, you can fix. You can change.”

  It’s not that easy, I thought. Will Sing be that forgiving when I accidentally break something precious to him? His books perhaps? What will Sing Smedry do when he finds all that he loves broken and mangled, discarded at the feet of the disaster known as Alcatraz Smedry?

  Sing smiled, removing his hand from my shoulder, apparently thinking that the problem was resolved. But it wasn’t, not for me. I sat down on the stones, arms around my knees. Wha
t’s wrong with me lately? Sing seems determined to like me. Why am I so concerned with making certain he knows what I’ve done?

  I turned away from Sing and, for some reason, found myself thinking about days long past.

  I have trouble remembering the first things I broke. They were valuable, though – I remember that. Expensive crystal things, collected by my first foster mother. It seemed that I could barely walk by her room without one of them shattering.

  That wasn’t all either. Any room they locked me in I could escape without even really trying. Anything they bought or brought into the home, the curious young Alcatraz would study and inspect.

  And break.

  So, they got rid of me. They hadn’t been cruel people – I’d just been too much for them. I saw them once, on the street a few months later, walking with a little girl. My replacement. A girl who didn’t break everything she touched, a girl who fit better into what they had imagined for their lives.

  I shivered, sitting with my back to the glass bars of my prison cell. Sometimes I tried – I tried so hard – not to break anything. But it was like the Talent welled up inside of me when I did that. And then, when it burst free, it was even more powerful.

  A tear rolled down my cheek. After moving from family to family enough times, I’d realized that they would all leave me eventually. After that, I hadn’t worried as much about what I broke. In fact… I’d begun to break things more often – important things. The valuable cars of a father who collected vehicles. The trophies won by a father who played sports in college. The kitchen of a mother who was a renowned chef.

  I’d told myself that these things were simply accidents. But now I saw a pattern in my life.

  I broke things early, quickly. The most valuable, important things. That way, they’d know. They’d know what I was.

  And they’d send me away. Before I could come to care for them. And get hurt again.

  It felt safer to act that way. But what had it done to me? In breaking so many objects, had I broken myself? I shivered again. Sitting in that cold Librarian dungeon – faced by my first (but certainly not last) failure as a leader – I finally admitted something to myself.