Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia Read online

  "Often, that involved weddings of one sort or another," Sing added.

  "That was during the time of our ancestor King Leavenworth Smedry the Sixth," Grandpa continued. "He decided that it would be better to combine our small kingdom of Smedrious with that of Nalhalla, leaving the Smedrys free of all that bothersome reigning so that we could focus on things that were more important, like fighting the Librarians."

  I wasn't sure how to react to that. I was the heir of the line. That meant if our ancestor hadn't given up the kingdom, I'd have been directly in line for the throne. It was a little bit like discovering that your lottery ticket was one number away from winning.

  "We gave it away,” I said. "All of it?"

  "Well, not all of it," Grandpa Smedry said. "Just the boring parts! We retained a seat on the Council of Kings so that we could still have a hand in politics, and as you can see, we have a nice castle and a large fortune to keep us busy. Plus, we're still nobility."

  "So what does that get us?"

  "Oh, a number of perks," Grandpa Smedry said. "Call-ahead seating at restaurants, access to the royal stables and the royal silimatic carrier fleet – I believe we've managed to wreck two of those in the last month. We're also peerage – which is a fancy way of saying we can speak in civil disputes, perform marriage ceremonies, arrest criminals, that sort of thing."

  "Wait," I said. "I can marry people?"

  "Sure," Grandpa Smedry said.

  "But I'm only thirteen!"

  "Well, you couldn't marry yourself to anyone. But if somebody else asked you, you could perform the ceremony. It wouldn't do for the king to have to do all of that himself, you know! Ah, here we are.”

  I glanced to the side, then jumped as I saw an enormous reptile crawling along the sides of the buildings toward us. Like a spider crawling across the front of a fence.

  "Dragon!" I yelled, pointing.

  "Brilliant observation, Smedry,” Bastille noted from beside me.

  I was too alarmed to make an amazing comeback.

  Fortunately, I'm the author of this book, so I can rewrite history as I feel necessary. Let's try that again.

  Ahem.

  I glanced to the side, whereupon I noticed a dangerous scaly lizard slithering its way along the sides of the buildings, obviously bent on devouring us all.

  "Behold!" I bellowed. "'Tis a foul beast of the netherhells. Stand behind me and I shall slay it!"

  "Oh, Alcatraz," Bastille breathed. "Thou art awesomish and manlyish."

  "Lo, let it be such," I said.

  "Don't be alarmed, lad," Grandpa Smedry said, glancing at the reptile. "That's our ride."

  I could see that the wingless, horned creature had a contraption on its back, a little like a gondola. The massive beast defied gravity, clinging to the stone faces of the buildings, kind of like lizard clinging to a cliff – only this lizard was large enough to swallow a bus. The dragon reached Keep Smedry, then climbed up to our balcony, its claws gripping the stones. I took an involuntary step backward as its enormous serpentine head crested the balcony and looked at us.

  "Smedry,” it said in a deep voice.

  "Hello, Tzoctinatin,” Grandpa Smedry said. “We need a ride to the palace, quickly."

  "So I have been told. Climb in."

  "Wait," I said. "We use dragons as taxis?"

  The dragon eyed me, and in that eye I saw a vastness. A deep, swirling depth, colors upon colors, folds upon folds. It made me feel small and meaningless.

  "I do not do this of my own will, young Smedry," the beast rumbled.

  "How long left on your sentence?" Grandpa Smedry asked.

  "Three hundred years," the creature said, turning away. "Three hundred years before they will return my wings so that I may fly again." With that, the creature climbed up the side of the wall a little farther, bringing the gondola basket into view. A walkway unfolded from it, and the others began to climb in.

  "What'd he do?" I whispered to Grandpa Smedry.

  "Hum? Oh, first-degree maiden munching, I believe. It happened some four centuries back. Tragic story. Watch that first step."

  I followed the others into the gondola. There was a well-furnished room inside, complete with comfortable-looking couches. Draulin was the last one in, and she closed the door. Immediately, the dragon began to move – I could tell by looking out the window. However, I couldn't feel the motion. It appeared that no matter which direction the dragon turned or which way was "up," the gondola occupants always had gravity point the same way.

  (I was later to learn that this, like many things in the Free Kingdoms, was due to a type of glass – Orientation Glass – that allows one to set a direction that is "down" when your forge it into a box. Therefore, anything inside the box is pulled in that direction, no matter which way the box turns.)

  I stood for a long time, watching out the window, which glowed faintly to my eyes because of my Oculator's Lenses. After the chaos of the explosion and my near death, I hadn't really had a chance to contemplate the city. It was amazing. As I'd seen, the entire city was filled with castles. Not just simple brick and stone buildings, but actual castles, with high walls and towers, each one different.

  Some had a fairy-tale feel, with archways and slender peaks. Others were brutish and no-nonsense, the type of castles you might imagine were ruled over by evil, blood-thirsty warlords. (It should be noted that the Honorable Guild of Evil Warlords has worked very hard to counter the negative stereotype of its members. After several dozen bake sales and charity auctions, someone suggested that they remove the word evil from the title of their organization. The suggestion was eventually rejected on account of Gurstak the Ruthless having just ordered a full box of embossed business cards.)

  The castles lined the streets like skyscrapers might in a large Hushlander city. I could see people moving on the road below – some in horse-drawn carriages – but our dragon continued to crawl lizardlike across the sides of buildings. The castles were close enough that when he came to a gap between buildings, he could simply stretch across.

  “Amazing, isn't it?" Bastille asked. I turned, not having realized that she'd joined me at the window.

  "It is," I said.

  "It always feels good to get back," Bastille said. "I love how clean everything is. The sparkling glass, the stonework and the carvings."

  "I would have thought that coming back would be rough this time," I said. "I mean, you left as a knight, but have to come back as a squire."

  She grimaced. "You really have a way with women, Smedry. Anyone ever told you that?"

  I blushed. "I just . . . uh . . ." Dang. You know, when I write my memoirs, I'm totally going to put a better line right there.

  (Too bad I forgot to do that. I really need to pay better attention to my notes.)

  "Yeah, whatever," Bastille said, leaning against the window and looking down. "I guess I'm resigned to my punishment."

  Not this again, I thought, worried. After losing her sword and being reprimanded by her mother, Bastille had gone through a serious funk. The worst part was that it was my fault. She'd lost her sword because I'd broken it while trying to fight off some sentient romance novels. Her mother seemed determined to prove that one mistake made Bastille completely unworthy to be a knight.

  "Oh, don't look at me like that," Bastille snapped. "Shattering Glass! Just because I'm resigned to my punishment doesn't mean I'm giving up completely. I still intend to find out who set me up like this."

  "You're sure someone did?"

  She nodded, eyes narrowing as she grew decidedly vengeful. I was happy that, for once, her wrath didn't seem directed at me.

  "The more I've thought about it," she said, "the more the things you said the other week make sense. Why did they assign a freshly knighted girl – on such a dangerous mission? Somebody in Crystallia wanted me to fail – someone was jealous of how fast I'd achieved knighthood, or wanted to embarrass my mother, or simply wanted to prove that I couldn't succeed."

 
"That doesn't sound very honorable," I noted. “A Knight of Crystallia wouldn't do something like that, would they?"

  "I . . . don't know," Bastille said, glancing toward her mother.

  "I find it hard to believe," I said, though I didn't completely believe that. You see, jealousy is an awful lot like farting. Neither is something you like to imagine a brave knight being involved in, but the truth is, knights are just people. They get jealous, they make mistakes, and – yes – they break wind. (Though, of course, knights never use the term "break wind." They prefer the term "bang the cymbals." Guess that's what they get for wearing so much armor.)

  Draulin stood at the back of the room, and – for once – wasn’t standing in a stiff "parade rest" stance. Instead, she was polishing her enormous crystal sword. Bastille suspected her mother had been the one to set her up, as Draulin was one of the knights who gave out assignments. But why would she send her own daughter on a mission that was obviously too hard for her?

  "Something is wrong,” Bastille said.

  "You mean, aside from the fact that our flying hawk mysteriously exploded?"

  She waved an indifferent hand. "The Librarians did that."

  "They did?"

  "Of course," Bastille said. "They have an ambassador in town and we're going to stop them from taking over Mokia. Hence, they tried to kill us. Once the Librarians try to blow you up a few dozen times, you get used to it."

  “Are we sure it was them?" I asked. "One of the rooms exploded, you said. Whose?"

  "My mother's," Bastille replied. "We think it might have been from some Detonator's Glass slipped into her pack before she left Nalhalla. She carried that pack all the way through the Library of Alexandria, and it was set to go off when she got back in range of the city."

  "Wow. Elaborate."

  "That's the Librarians. Anyway, something is bothering my mother. I can tell."

  "Maybe she's feeling bad for punishing you so harshly."

  Bastille snorted. "Not likely. This is something else, something about the sword. . . ."

  She trailed off and didn't seem to have anything else to add. A few moments later, Grandpa Smedry waved me toward him. "Alcatraz!" he said. "Come listen to this!"

  My grandfather was sitting with Sing on the couches. I walked over and sat down next to my grandfather, noting how comfortable the couch was. I hadn't seen any other dragons like this one crawling across the walls of the city, so I assumed that the ride was a special privilege.

  "Sing, tell my grandson what you've been telling me," Grandpa Smedry said.

  "Well, here's the thing," Sing said, leaning forward. "This ambassador sent by the Librarians, she's from the Wardens of the Standard."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "It's one of the Librarian sects," Sing explained. "Blackburn was from the Order of the Dark Oculators, while the assassin you faced in the Library of Alexandria was from the Order of the Scrivener's Bones. The Wardens of the Standard have always claimed to be the most kindly of the Librarians."

  "Kindly Librarians? That seems like an oxymoron."

  "It's also an act,” Grandpa Smedry said. "The whole order is founded on the idea of looking innocent; they're really the deadliest snakes in the lot. The Wardens maintain most of the Hushlander libraries. They pretend that because they're only a bunch of bureaucrats, they're not dangerous like the Dark Oculators or the Order of the Shattered Lens."

  "Well, act or not," Sing replied, "they're the only Librarians who have ever made any kind of effort to work with the Free Kingdoms, rather than just trying to conquer us. This ambassador has convinced the Council of Kings that she is serious."

  I listened, interested, but not quite sure why my grandfather wanted me to know this. I'm a rather awesome person (have I mentioned that?) but I'm really not that great at politics. It's one of the three things I've no experience whatsoever doing, the other two being writing books and atmospheric rocket-propelled penguin riding. (Stupid responsibility.)

  "So . . . what does this have to do with me?" I asked.

  "Everything, lad, everything!" Grandpa Smedry pointed at me. "We're Smedrys. When we gave up our kingdom, we took an oath to watch over all of the Free Kingdoms. We're the guardians of civilization!"

  "But wouldn't it be good if the kings make peace with the Librarians?"

  Sing looked pained. "Alcatraz, to do so, they would give up Mokia, my homeland! It would get folded into the Hushlands, and a generation or two from now, the Mokians wouldn't even remember being free. My people can't continue to fight the Librarians without the support of the other Free Kingdoms. We're too small on our own."

  "The Librarians won't keep their promise of peace," Grandpa Smedry said. "They've wanted Mokia badly for years now – I still don't know why they're so focused on it, as opposed to other kingdoms. Either way, taking over Mokia will put them one step closer to controlling the entire world. Manhandling Moons! Do you really think we can just give away an entire kingdom like that?"

  I looked at Sing. The oversized anthropologist and his sister had become very dear to me over the last few months. They were earnest and fiercely loyal, and Sing had believed in me even when I'd tried to push him away. And for that, I wanted to do whatever I could to help him.

  "No," I said. "You're right, we can't let that happen. We've got to stop it."

  Grandpa Smedry smiled, laying a hand on my shoulder. It might not seem like much, but this was a drastic turning point for me. It was the first time I really decided that I was in. I'd entered the Library of Alexandria only because I'd been chased by a monster. I'd only gone into Blackburn's lair because Grandpa Smedry had urged me on.

  This was different. I understood then why my grandfather had called me over. He wanted me to be part of this – not just a kid who tags along, but a full participant.

  Something tells me I'd have been much better off hiding in my room. Responsibility. It's the opposite of selfishness. I wish I'd known where it would get me. But this was before my betrayal and before I went blind.

  Through one of the windows, I could see that the dragon had begun to descend. A moment later, the gondola settled against the ground.

  We had arrived.

  CHAPTER 4

  All right, I understand. you're confused. Don't feel ashamed; it happens to everyone once in a while. (Except me, of course.)

  Having read the previous two books of my autobiography (as I'm sure by now you have), you know that I'm generally down on myself. I've told you that I'm a liar, a sadist, and a terrible person. And yet now in this volume, I've started talking about my awesomeness. Have I really changed my mind? Have I actually decided that I am a hero? Am I wearing kitty-cat socks right now?

  No. (The socks have dolphins on them.)

  I've realized something. By being so hard on myself in the previous books, I sounded like I was being humble. Readers assumed that because I said I was a terrible person, I must – indeed – be a saint.

  Honestly, are you people determined to drive me insane? Why can't you just listen to what I tell you?

  Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that the only way to convince you readers that I'm a terrible person is to show you how arrogant and self-centered I am. I'll do this by talking about my virtues. Incessantly. All the time. Until you’re completely sick of hearing about my superiority.

  Maybe then you'll understand.

  The royal palace of Nalhalla turned out to be the white, pyramid-like castle at the center of the city. I stepped from the gondola, trying not to gawk as I gazed up at the magnificent building. The stonework was carved up as high as I could see.

  "Forward!" Grandpa Smedry said, rushing up the steps like a general running into battle. He's remarkably spry for a person who is always late to everything.

  I glanced at Bastille, who looked kind of sick. "I think I'll wait outside,” she said.

  "You're going in," Draulin snapped, walking up the steps, her armor clinking.

  I frowned. Usually, Draulin was very keen
on making Bastille wait outside, since a mere "squire" shouldn't be involved in important issues. Why insist that she enter the palace? I shot Bastille a questioning glance, but she just grimaced. So I rushed to catch up to my grandfather and Sing.

  ". . . afraid I can't tell you much more, Lord Smedry,” Sing was saying. "Folsom is the one who has been keeping track of the Council of Kings in your absence."

  "Ah, yes," Grandpa Smedry said. "He'll be here, I assume?"

  "He should be!" Sing said.

  “Another cousin?" I asked.

  Grandpa Smedry nodded. "Quentin's elder brother, son of my daughter, Pattywagon. Folsom's a fine lad! Brig had his eye on the boy for quite some time to marry one of his daughters, I believe."

  "Brig?" I asked.

  "King Dartmoor," Sing said.

  Dartmoor. "Wait," I said. "That's a prison, isn't it? Dartmoor?" (I know my prisons, as you might guess.)

  "Indeed, lad," Grandpa Smedry said.

  "Doesn't that mean he's related to us?"

  It was a stupid question. Fortunately I knew I'd be writing my memoirs and understood that a lot of people might be confused about this point. Therefore, using my powers of awsomosity, I asked this stupid-sounding question in order to lay the groundwork for my book series.

  I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.

  "No," Grandpa Smedry said. "A prison name doesn't necessarily mean that someone is a Smedry. The king's family is traditional, like ours, and they tend to use names of famed historical people over and over. The Librarians then named prisons after those same famous historical people to discredit them.”

  “Oh, right,” I said.

  Something about that thought bothered me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Probably because the thought was inside my head, and so "putting my finger on it" would have required sticking said finger through my skull, which sounds kind of painful.