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. Midgets are 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 just 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 preparing!” 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 fire. 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, actually, that silimatic engines aren’t really that complex. They’re actually a fair bit more easy to understand than regular 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 when exposed to it. 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 rooms 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 side of the wall. “Dark,” she said. The wall immediately grew black. She glanced back at me. “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 down 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.
CHAPTER 4
You think you’ve figured it out, have you? My logical dilemma? My argumentative lapse? My brain freeze of rationality? My… uh… traffic jam of lucidity?
Let’s just forget that last one.
Anyway, there is – as you’ve probably noticed – a flaw in my logic. I claim to be a liar. Outright, without any guile, and straightforward.
Yet, after declaring myself to be a liar, I have proceeded to write a book about my life. So, therefore, how can you trust the story itself? If it’s being told by a liar, won’t it all be false? In fact, how can you trust that I’m a liar? If I always lie, then wouldn’t I have had to be lying about saying I’m a liar?
Now you see why I mentioned brain freezes, eh? Let me clarify. I have been a liar. Most of my life is a sham – the heroics I’m known for, the life I’ve led, the fame I’ve enjoyed. Those are lies.
The things I’m telling you here are factual. In this case, I can only prove that I’m a liar by telling the truth, though I will also include some lies – which I will point out – to act as object lessons proving the truth that I’m a liar.
Got that?
I was thrown off the bedroll and rammed against the glass wall as the Dragonaut shook, twisting away from the explosion that was still visible in the darkness outside my wall. Our vessel didn’t appear to have been damaged, but it had been a close call.
I rubbed my head, coming awake. Then cursed quietly and scrambled out the door. At that moment, the Dragonaut lurched again, moving to the right. I was thrown off my feet as a flaring missile just barely missed our ship. It trailed a glow of flaming smoke behind it, then exploded off in the distance.
I righted myself just in time to see something else shoot past the Dragonaut – not another missile, but something with roaring engines. It looked alarmingly like an F-15 fighter jet.
“Shattering Glass!” I exclaimed, forcing myself to my feet and pulling out my Oculator’s Lenses. I shoved them on and rushed to the cockpit. I arrived, stumbling through the doorway as Bastille pointed. “Left!” she yelled. “Bank left!”
I could see sweat on Australia’s face as she turned the Dragonaut to the side, out of the way of the approaching fighter. I barely managed to stay on my feet as the ship dodged another missile.
I groaned, shaking my head. Kaz stood on a seat, hands leaning against the control dash, looking out the other eyeball. “Now this,” the short man proclaimed, “is more like it! It’s been ages since anyone shot missiles at me!”
Bastille gave him a harsh stare, then glanced to the side as I rushed up, grabbing a chair to steady myself.
Ahead, the fighter launched another missile.
I focused, trying to get my talent to engage at a distance and destroy the jet like it did guns. Nothing happened.
Australia twisted the Dragonaut just in time, throwing me to the side, my hands slipping free of the chair. That’s one problem with making everything out of glass. Handholds become rather difficult to maintain.
Bastille managed to stay up, but she had on her Warrior’s Lenses, which enhanced her physical abilities. Kaz didn’t have any Lenses on, but he seemed to have an excellent sense of balance.
I rubbed my head as the missile exploded off in the distance. “This shouldn’t be possible!” I said. “That jet has so many moving parts, my Talent should have been able to stop it easy.”
Bastille shook her head, glancing at me. “Glass missiles, Alcatraz.”
I’ve never seen anything like this,” Australia agreed, glancing over her shoulder, watching the jet’s fire trails. “That ship isn’t Hushlander technology – or, well, not completely. It’s some kind of fusion. Parts of the jet body look like they’re metal, but others look like they’re glass.”
Bastille gave me a hand to help me back up to my feet.
“Aw, birchnuts!” Kaz swore, pointing. I squinted, leaning against the chair, watching the jet bank and turn back toward us. It seemed more maneuverable, more precise, than a regular jet. As it turned toward us, its cockpit started to glow.
Not the whole cockpit. Just the glass covering it. I frowned, and my friends seemed equally confused.
The jet’s canopy shot forth a beam of glowing white power, directed at us. It hit one of the dragon’s wings, spraying out shards of ice and snow. The wing, caught in the grip of the cold, froze in place. Then, as its mechanisms tried to force it to move, the wing shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Frostbringer’s Lens!” Bastille shouted as the Dragonaut rocked.
“That was no Lens!” Australia said. “That fired from the canopy glass!”
“Amazing!” Kaz said, holding on to his seat as the ship rocked.
We’re going to die, I thought.
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt that icy pit of terror, that sense of horrible doom that come from thinking I was going to die. I felt it on the altar when I was about to get sacrificed, I felt it when Blackburn shot me with his Torturer’s Lens, and I felt it as I watched the F-15 turn back toward us for another run.
I never got used to that feeling. It’s kind of like getting punched in the face by your own mortality.
And mortality has a wicked right hook.
“We need to do something!” I shouted as the Dragonaut lurched. Australia, however, had her eyes closed – I’d later learn that she was mentally compensating for the lost wing, keeping us in the air. Ahead of us, the fighter’s cockpit began glowing again.
“We are doing something,” Bastille said.
“What?”
“Stalling!”
“For what?”
Something thumped up above. I glanced up, apprehensive as I looked through the translucent glass. Bastille’s mother, Draulin, stood up on the roof of the Dragonaut. A majestic cloak fluttered out behind her, and she wore her steel armor. She carried a Sword of Crystallia.
I’d seen one once before, during the Library infiltration. Bastille had pulled it out to fight against Alivened monsters. I’d thought, maybe, that I’d remembered the sword’s ridiculous size wrong – that perhaps it had simply looked big next to Bastille.
I was wrong. The sword was enormous, at least five feet long from tip of blade to hilt. It glittered, made completely of the crystal from which the Crystin, and Crystallia itself, get their name.
(The knights aren’t terribly original with names. Crystin, Crystallia, crystals. One time when I was allowed into Crystallia, I jokingly dubbed my potato a “Potatin potato, grown and crafted in the Fields of Potatallia.” The knights were not amused. Maybe I should have used my carrot instead.)
Draulin stepped across the head of our flying dragon, her armored boots clinking against the glass. Somehow, she managed to retain a sure footing despite the wind and the shaking vehicle.
The jet fired a beam from its Frostbringer’s glass, aiming for another wing. Bastille’s mother jumped, leaping through the air, cloak flapping. She landed on the wing itself, raising her crystalline sword. The beam of frost hit the sword and disappeared in a puff. Bastille’s mother barely even bent beneath the blow. She stood powerfully, her armored visor obscur
ing her face.
The cockpit fell silent. It seemed impossible to me that Draulin had managed such a feat. Yet, as I waited, the jet fired again, and once again Bastille’s mother managed to get in front of the beam and destroy it.
“She’s… standing on top of the Dragonaut,” I said as I watched through the glass.
“Yes,” Bastille said.
“We appear to be going several hundred miles an hour.”
“About that.”
“She’s blocking laser beams fired by a jet airplane.”
“Yes.”
“Using nothing but her sword.”
“She’s a Knight of Crystallia,” Bastille said, looking away. “That’s the sort of think they do.”
I fell silent, watching Bastille’s mother run the entire length of the Dragonaut in the space of a couple seconds, then block an ice beam fired at us from behind.
Kaz shook his head. “Those Crystin,” he said. “They take the fun out of everything.” He smiled toothily.
To this day, I haven’t been able to tell if Kaz genuinely has a death wish, or if he just likes to act that way. Either way, he’s a loon. But, then, he’s a Smedry. That’s virtually a synonym for “insane, foolhardy lunatic.”
I glanced at Bastille. She watched her mother move above, and seemed longing, yet ashamed at the same time.
That’s the sort of thing they expect her to be able to do, I thought. That’s why they took her knighthood from her – because they thought she wasn’t up to their standards.
“Um, trouble!” Australia said. She’d opened her eyes, but looked very frazzled as she sat with her hand on the glowing panel. Up ahead, the fighter jet was charging its glass again – and it had just released another missile.
“Grab on!” Bastille said, getting ahold of a chair. I did the same, for all the good it did. I was again tossed to the side as Australia dodged. Up above, Draulin managed to block the Frostbringer’s ray, but it looked close.
The missile exploded just a short distance from the body of the Dragonaut.
We can’t keep doing this, I thought. Australia looks like she can barely hold on, and Bastille’s mother will get tired eventually.
Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones Page 4