‘So, your brilliant plan is to go to someone you suspect of being our enemy, then bring her into the very place that the Librarians are trying to break into.’
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘Wonderful. Why do I feel that I’m going to end this ridiculous fiasco wishing I’d just given up my knighthood and become an accountant instead?’
I smiled. It felt good to have Bastille back. It was hard for me to feel too impressed by my own fame with her there pointing out the holes in my plans.
‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’ I asked. ‘About quitting the knighthood?’
She sighed, opening her eyes. ‘No. As much as I hate to admit it, my mother was right. I’m not only good at this, but I enjoy it.’
She looked at me, meeting my eyes. ‘Somebody set me up, Alcatraz. I’m convinced of it. They wanted me to fail.’
‘Your . . . mother was the one who voted most harshly against your reinstatement.’
Bastille nodded, and I could see that she was thinking the same thing that I was.
‘We have quite the parents, don’t we?’ I asked. ‘My father ignores me; my mother married him just to get his Talent.’
Marry a Smedry, and you got a Talent. Apparently, it didn’t matter if you were a Smedry by blood or by marriage: A Smedry was a Smedry. The only difference was that in the case of a marriage, the spouse got their husband’s or wife’s same Talent.
‘My parents aren’t like that,’ Bastille said fiercely. ‘They’re good people. My father is one of the most respected and popular kings Nalhalla has ever known.’
‘Even if he is giving up on Mokia,’ Sing said quietly from his seat across from us.
‘He thinks he’s doing the best thing,’ Bastille said. ‘How would you like to have to decide whether to end a war – and save thousands of lives – or keep fighting? He sees a chance for peace, and the people want peace.’
‘My people want peace,’ Sing said. ‘But we want freedom more.’
Bastille fell silent. ‘Anyway,’ she finally said, ‘assuming my mother was the one to set me up, I can see exactly why she’d do it. She worries about showing favoritism toward me. She feels she needs to be extra hard on me, which is why she’d send me on such a difficult mission. To see if I failed, and therefore needed to go back into training. But she does care for me. She just has strange ways of showing it.’
I sat back, thinking about my own parents. Perhaps Bastille could come up with good motives for hers, but they were a noble king and a brave knight. What did I have? An egotistical rock-star scientist and an evil Librarian who even other Librarians didn’t seem to like very much.
Attica and Shasta Smedry were not like Bastille’s parents. My mother didn’t care about me – she’d married only to get the Talent. And my father obviously didn’t want to spend any time with me.
No wonder I turned out like I did. There is a saying in the Free Kingdoms: ‘A cub’s roar is an echo of the bear.’ It’s a little bit like one we use in the Hushlands: ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ (It figures that the Librarian version would use apples instead of something cool, like bears.)
I’m not sure if I ever had a chance to be anything but the selfish jerk I became. Despite Grandpa Smedry’s chastisement, I still longed for the fleeting satisfaction of fame. It had been really nice to hear people talk about how great I was.
My taste of fame sat in me like a corrupt seed, blackened and putrid, waiting to sprout forth slimy dark vines.
‘Alcatraz?’ Bastille asked, elbowing me.
I blinked, realizing that I’d zoned out. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.
She nodded to the side. Prince Rikers was approaching. ‘I called ahead, and Folsom isn’t at the palace,’ he said.
‘He isn’t?’ I asked, surprised.
‘No, the servants said that he and a woman looked over the treaty, then left. But never fear! We can continue our quest, for the servant said that we could find Folsom in the Royal Gardens—’
‘Not a park,’ Sing said. ‘Or, er, never mind.’
‘—across the street.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing in the gardens?’
‘Something terribly exciting and important, I’d guess,’ Rikers said. ‘Eldon, take notes!’
A servant in a scribe’s robes appeared from a nearby room, as if from nowhere, with a notepad. ‘Yes, my lord,’ the man said, scribbling.
‘This will make an excellent book,’ Rikers said, sitting down.
Bastille just rolled her eyes.
‘So, wait,’ I said. ‘You called ahead? How’d you do that?’
‘Communicator’s Glass,’ Rikers said. ‘Lets you talk with someone across a distance.’
Communicator’s Glass. However, something about that bothered me. I reached into my pocket, pulling out my Lenses. I’d once had a pair of Lenses that let me communicate across a distance. I didn’t have them anymore – I’d given them back to Grandpa Smedry. I did have the new set of Disguiser’s Lenses, though. What about the power they gave me? If I was thinking about someone, I could make myself look like them . . .
(By the way, yes, this is foreshadowing. However, you’ll need to have read the previous two books in the series to figure out what’s going on. So if you haven’t read them, then too bad for you!)
‘Wait,’ Bastille said, pointing at the Truthfinder’s Lens in my hand. ‘Is that the one you found in the Library of Alexandria?’
‘Yeah. Grandpa figured out that it’s a Truthfinder’s Lens.’
She perked up. ‘Really? Do you know how rare those are?’
‘Well . . . to be honest, I kind of wish that it could blow things up.’
Bastille rolled her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t know a useful Lens if you cut your finger on it, Smedry.’
She had a point. ‘You know a lot more about Lenses than I do, Bastille,’ I admitted. ‘But I think there’s something odd about all of this. Smedry Talents, the Oculator’s Lenses, brightsand . . . it’s all connected.’
She eyed me. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Here, let me show you.’ I tucked my Lenses away, standing up and scanning the chamber, looking for a likely candidate. On one wall, there was a small shelf with some glass equipment on it. ‘Your Highness, what’s that?’
Prince Rikers turned. ‘Ah! My new silimatic phonograph! Haven’t hooked it up yet, though.’
‘Perfect,’ I said, walking over and picking up the glass box; it was about the size of a briefcase.
‘That won’t work, Alcatraz,’ the prince said. ‘It needs a silimatic power plate or some brightsand to—’
I channeled power into the glass. Not breaking power from my Talent, but the same ‘power’ I used to activate Lenses. Early on, I had simply needed to touch Lenses to power them; now I was learning to control myself so that I didn’t activate them unintentionally.
Either way, the box started playing music – a peppy little symphony. It’s a good thing Folsom wasn’t there, otherwise he would have begun to ‘dance.’
‘Hey, how’d you do that?’ Prince Rikers asked. ‘Amazing!’
Bastille regarded me quizzically. I set the music box down, and it continued to play for a time, powered by the charge I’d given it.
‘I’m starting to think that Oculatory Lenses and regular technological glass might just be the same thing.’
‘That’s impossible,’ she said. ‘If that were so, then you could power Oculator’s Lenses with brightsand.’
‘You can’t?’
She shook her head.
‘Maybe it’s not concentrated enough,’ I said. ‘You can power the Lenses with Smedry blood, if you forge them using it.’
‘Ick,’ she noted. ‘It’s true. But ick anyway.’
‘Ah, here we are!’ Rikers said suddenly, standing up as the pig slowed.
I shot Bastille a look. She shrugged; we’d discuss this more later. We stood and joined Rikers, looking out the window (or, well, the wall) at the appro
aching gardens. My sense of urgency returned. We needed to grab Himalaya and get back to the Royal, nonlibrary Archives.
Rikers pulled a lever, and the back of the pig unfolded, forming steps. Bastille and I rushed out, Sing hustling along behind. The Royal Gardens were a large, open field of grass dotted occasionally by beds of flowers. I scanned the green, trying to locate my cousin. Of course, Bastille found him first.
‘There,’ she said, pointing. Squinting, I could see that Folsom and Himalaya were sitting on a blanket, enjoying what appeared to be a picnic.
‘Wait here!’ I called to Sing and Rikers as Bastille and I crossed the springy grass, passing families enjoying the afternoon and kids playing.
‘What in the world are those two doing?’ I asked, looking at Folsom and Himalaya.
‘Uh, I think that’s called a picnic, Smedry,’ Bastille said flatly.
‘I know, but why would Folsom take an enemy spy on a picnic? Perhaps he’s trying to get her to relax so he can mine her for information.’
Bastille regarded the two of them, who sat on the blanket enjoying their meal. ‘So, wait,’ she said as we rushed forward. ‘They’re always together?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He’s been watching her like a hawk. He’s always looking at her.’
‘You’d say he’s been spending a lot of time with her?’
‘A suspicious amount of time.’
‘Hanging out at restaurants?’
‘Ice cream parlors,’ I said. ‘He claims to be showing her around so that she’d get used to Nalhallan customs.’
‘And you think he’s doing this because he suspects her of being a spy,’ Bastille said, voice almost amused.
‘Well, why else would he—’
I froze, stopping on the grass. Just ahead, Himalaya laid her hand on Folsom’s shoulder, laughing at something he’d said. He regarded her, seeming transfixed by her face. He seemed to be enjoying himself, as if . . .
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Boys are such idiots,” Bastille said under her breath, moving on.
‘How was I supposed to know they were in love!” I snapped, rushing up to her.
‘Idiot,’ she repeated.
‘Look, she could still be a spy. Why, maybe she’s seducing Folsom to get at his secrets!’
‘Seductions don’t look so cutesy,’ Bastille said as we approached their blanket. ‘Anyway, there’s a simple method to find out. Pull out that Truthfinder’s Lens.’
Hey, that’s a good idea, I thought. I fumbled, pulling out the Lens and looking through it toward the Librarian.
Bastille marched right up to the blanket. ‘You’re Himalaya?’ she asked.
‘Why, yes,’ the Librarian said. As I looked through the Lens, her breath seemed to glow like a white cloud. I assumed that meant she was telling the truth.
‘Are you a Librarian spy?’ Bastille asked. (She’s like that, blunter than a rock and twice as ornery.)
‘What?’ Himalaya said. ‘No, of course not!’
Her breath was white.
I turned to Bastille. ‘Grandpa Smedry warned that Librarians were good at saying half-truths, which might get them around my Truthfinder’s Lens.’
‘Are you saying half-truths?’ Bastille said. ‘Are you trying to fool that Lens, trick us, seduce this man, or do anything like that?’
‘No, no, no,’ Himalaya said, blushing.
Bastille looked at me.
‘Her breath is white,’ I said. ‘If she’s lying, she’s doing a really great job of it.’
‘Good enough for me,’ Bastille said, pointing. ‘You two, get in the pig. We’re on a tight schedule.’
They jumped to their feet, not even asking questions.
When Bastille gets that tone in her voice, you do what she says. For the first time, I realized where Bastille’s ability to order people about might have come from. She was a princess – she’d probably spent her entire childhood giving commands.
By the First Sands, I thought. She’s a princess.
‘All right,’ Bastille said. ‘We’ve got your Librarian, Smedry. Let’s hope she can actually help.’
We headed back to the pig, and I eyed the setting sun. Not much time left. This next part was going to have to go quickly. (I suggest you take a deep breath.)
15
Humans are funny things. From what I’ve seen, the more we agree with someone, the more we like listening to them. I’ve come up with a theory. I call it the macaroni and cheese philosophy of discourse.
I love macaroni and cheese. It’s amazing. If they serve food in heaven, I’m certain mac and cheese graces each and every table. If someone wants to sit and talk to me about how good mac and cheese is, I’ll talk to them for hours. However, if they want to talk about fish sticks, I generally stuff them in a cannon and launch them in the general direction of Norway.
That’s the wrong reaction. I know what mac and cheese tastes like. Wouldn’t it be more useful for me to talk to someone who likes something else? Maybe understanding what other people like about fish sticks could help me understand how they think.
A lot of the world doesn’t think this way. In fact, a lot of people think that if they like mac and cheese rather than fish sticks, the best thing to do is ban fish sticks.
That would be a tragedy. If we let people do things like this, eventually we’d end up with only one thing to eat. And it probably wouldn’t be mac and cheese or fish sticks. It’d probably be something that none of us likes to eat.
You want to be a better person? Go listen to someone you disagree with. Don’t argue with them, just listen. It’s remarkable what interesting things people will say if you take the time to not be a jerk.
We dashed from the giant glass pig like deployed soldiers, then stormed up the steps to the Royal Archives. (Go ahead, say it with me. I know you want to.)
Not a library.
Bastille in her Warrior’s Lenses was the fastest, of course, but Folsom and Himalaya kept up. Sing was in the rear, right beside . . .
‘Prince Rikers?’ I said, freezing in place. I’d assumed that the prince would remain with his vehicle.
‘Yes, what?’ the prince said, stopping beside me, turning and looking back.
‘Why are you here?’ I said.
‘I finally have a chance to see the famous Alcatraz Smedry in action! I’m not going to miss it.’
‘Your Highness,’ I said, ‘this might be dangerous.’
‘You really think so?’ he asked excitedly.
‘What’s going on?’ Bastille said, rushing back down the steps. ‘I thought we were in a hurry.’
‘He wants to come,’ I said, gesturing.
She shrugged. ‘We can’t really stop him – he’s the crown prince. That kind of means he can do what he wants.’
‘But what if he gets killed?’ I asked.
‘Then they’ll have to pick a new crown prince,’ Bastille snapped. ‘Are we going or not?’
I sighed, glancing at the red-haired prince. He was smiling in self-satisfaction.
‘Great,’ I muttered, but continued up the stairs. The prince rushed beside me. ‘By the way,’ I said. ‘Why a pig?’
‘Why,’ he said, surprised, ‘I heard that in the Hushlands, it is common for tough guys to ride hogs.’
I groaned. ‘Prince Rikers, “hog” is another word for a motorcycle.’
‘Motorcycles look like pigs?’ he asked. ‘I never knew that!’
‘You know what, never mind,’ I said. We rushed into the room with the soldiers; it looked like the knights had sent for reinforcements. There were a lot of them on the stairs too. I felt good knowing they were there in case the Librarians did break into the Royal Archives.
‘Not a library,’ Sing added.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Just thought you might be thinking about it,’ Sing said, ‘and figured I should remind you.’
We reached the bottom. The two knights had taken up guard positions inside the room, and they
saluted the prince as we entered.
‘Any Librarians?’ I asked.
‘No,’ the blond knight said, ‘but we can still hear the scrapings. We have two platoons on command here, and two more searching nearby buildings. So far, we’ve not discovered anything – but we’ll be ready for them if they break into the stairwell!’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘You should wait outside, just in case.’ I didn’t want them to see what was about to happen. It was embarrassing. They left and closed the door. I turned to Himalaya. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’
She looked confused. ‘Do what?’
Oh, right, I thought. We’d never actually explained why we needed her. ‘Somewhere in this room are some books the Librarians really want,’ I said. ‘Your former friends are tunneling in here right now. I need you to . . .’
I could see Bastille, Folsom, and Sing cringe as I prepared to say it.
. . . I need you to organize the books in here.’
Himalaya paled. ‘What?’
‘You heard me right.’
She glanced at Folsom. He looked away.
‘You’re testing me,’ she said, forming fists. ‘Don’t worry, I can resist it. You don’t need to do this.’
‘No, really,’ I said, exasperated. ‘I’m not testing you. I just need these books to have some kind of order.’
She sat down on a pile. ‘But . . . but I’m recovering! I’ve been clean for months now! You can’t ask me to go back, you can’t.’
‘Himalaya,’ I said, kneeling beside her. ‘We really, really need you to do this.’
She started trembling, which made me hesitate.
‘I—’
She stood and fled the room, tears in her eyes. Folsom rushed after her and I was left kneeling, feeling horrible. Like I’d just told a little girl that her kitten was dead. Because I’d run it over. And that I’d also eaten it.
And that it had tasted really bad.
‘Well, that’s that, then,’ Bastille said. She sat down on a pile of books. She was starting to look haggard again. We’d kept her distracted for a time, but the severing was still weighing on her.
I could still hear the scraping sounds, and they were getting louder. ‘All right, then,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘We’re going to have to destroy them.’
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