‘What?’ Sing asked. ‘The books?’
I nodded. ‘We can’t let my mother get what she wants. Whatever it is, I’ll bet it involves Mokia. This is the only thing I can think of – I doubt we can move these books out in time.’ I looked toward the mounds. ‘We’re going to have to burn them.’
‘We don’t have the authority for that,’ Bastille said tiredly.
‘Yes,’ I said, turning toward Prince Rikers. ‘But I’ll bet that he does.’
The prince looked up – he’d been poking through a pile of books, probably looking for fantasy novels. ‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘I have to say, this adventure hasn’t been very exciting. Where are the explosions, the rampaging wombats, the space stations?’
‘This is what a real adventure is like, Prince Rikers,’ I said. ‘We need to burn these books so the Librarians don’t get them. Can you authorize that?’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ he said. ‘A bonfire might be exciting.’
I walked over and grabbed one of the lamps off the walls. Bastille and Sing joined me, looking at the books as I prepared to begin the fire.
‘This feels wrong,’ Sing said.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But what does anyone care about these books? They just stuffed them in here. I’ll bet people rarely even come look at them.’
‘I did,’ Sing said. ‘Years back. I can’t be the only one. Besides, they’re books. Knowledge. Who knows what we might lose? There are books in here that are so old, they might be the only copies in existence outside of the ones at the Library of Alexandria.’
I stood with the fire in my hand. Now, I hadn’t meant this to be a metaphor for anything – I’m simply relating what happened. It did seem like the right thing to do. And yet, it also felt like the wrong thing too. Was it better to burn the books and let nobody have the knowledge, or take the chance that the Librarians would get them?
I knelt and put the lamp toward a stack of books, its flame flickering.
‘Wait,’ Bastille said, kneeling beside me. ‘You have to turn it to “burn”.’
‘But it’s already burning,’ I said, confused.
‘Not that argument again,’ she said, sighing. (Go read book one.) ‘Here.’ She touched the glass of the lamp, and the flame seemed to pulse. ‘It’s ready now.’
I took a deep breath, then – hand trembling – lit the first book on fire.
‘Wait!’ a voice called. ‘Don’t do it!’ I spun to see Himalaya standing in the doorway, Folsom at her side. I looked back at the books desperately; the flame was already spreading.
Then, fortunately, Sing tripped. His enormous Mokian bulk smashed onto the pile of books, his gut completely extinguishing the flames. A little trickle of smoke curled out from underneath him.
‘Whoops,’ he said.
‘No,’ Himalaya said, striding forward. ‘You did the right thing, Sing. I’ll do it. I’ll organize them. Just . . . just don’t hurt them. Please.’
I stepped back as Folsom helped Sing to his feet. Himalaya knelt by the pile that had almost gone up in flames. She touched one of the books lovingly, picking it up with her delicate fingers.
‘So . . . uh,’ she said, ‘What order do you want? Reverse timeshare, where the books are organized by the minute when they were published? Marksman elite, where we organize them by the number of times the word “the” is used in the first fifty pages?’
‘I think a simple organization by topic will do,’ I said. ‘We need to find the ones about Oculators or Smedrys or anything suspicious like that.’
Himalaya caressed the book, feeling its cover, reading the spine. She carefully placed it next to her, then picked up another. She placed that one in another pile.
This is going to take forever, I thought with despair.
Himalaya grabbed another book. This time, she barely glanced at the spine before setting it aside. She grabbed another, then another, then another, moving more quickly with each volume.
She stopped, taking a deep breath. Then she burst into motion, her hands moving more quickly than I could track. She seemed to be able to identify a book simply by touching it, and knew exactly where to place it. In mere seconds, a small wall of books was rising around her.
‘A little help, please!’ she called. ‘Start moving the stacks over, but don’t let them get out of order!’
Sing, Folsom, Bastille, and I hurried forward to help. Even the prince went to work. We rushed back and forth, moving books where Himalaya told us, struggling to keep up with the Librarian.
She was almost superhuman in her ability to organize – a machine of identification and order. Dirty, unkempt piles disappeared beneath her touch, transformed into neat stacks, the dust and grime cleaned from them in a single motion of her hand.
Soon Folsom got the idea to recruit some of the soldiers to help. Himalaya sat in the center of the room like some multi-armed Hindu goddess, her hands a blur. We brought her stacks of books and she organized them in the blink of an eye, leaving them grouped by subject. She had a serene smile on her face. It was the smile my grandfather had when he spoke of an exciting infiltration, or the way Sing looked when he spoke of his cherished antique weapons collection. It was the look of someone doing work they perfectly and truly enjoyed.
I rushed forward with another stack of books. Himalaya snatched them without looking at me, then threw them into piles like a dealer dealing cards.
Impressive! I thought.
‘All right, I have to say it,’ Himalaya said as she worked. Soldiers clinked in their armor, rushing back and forth, delivering stacks of unorganized books to her feet, then taking away the neatly organized ones she placed behind her.
‘What is wrong with you Free Kingdomers?’ she demanded, ranting as if to nobody in particular. ‘I mean, I left the Hushlands because I disagreed with the way the Librarians were keeping information from the people.
‘But why is it bad to organize? Why do you have to treat books like this? What’s wrong with having a little order? You Free Kingdomers claim to like things loose and free, but if there are never any rules, there is chaos. Organization is important.’
I set down my stack of books, then rushed back.
‘Who knows what treasures you could have lost here?’ she snapped, arms flying. ‘Mold can destroy books. Mice can chew them to bits. They need to be cared for, treasured. Somebody needs to keep track of what you have so that you can appreciate your own collection!’
Folsom stepped up beside me, his brow dripping with sweat. He watched Himalaya with adoring eyes, smiling broadly.
‘Why did I have to give up who I was?’ the Librarian ranted. ‘Why can’t I be me, but also be on your side? I don’t want to stifle information, but I do want to organize it! I don’t want to rule the world, but I do want to bring it order! I don’t want everything to be the same, but I do want to understand!’
She stopped for a moment. ‘I am a good Librarian!’ she declared in a triumphant voice, grabbing a huge stack of unorganized books. She shook them once, like one might a pepper shaker, and somehow the books all aligned in order by subject, size, and author.
‘Wow,’ Folsom breathed.
‘You really do love her,’ I said.
Folsom blushed, looking at me. ‘Is it that obvious?’
It hadn’t been to me. But I smiled anyway.
‘These last six months have been amazing,’ he said, getting that dreamy, disgusting tone to his voice that lovesick people often use. ‘I started out just watching to see if she was a spy, but after I determined that she was safe . . . well, I wanted to keep spending time with her. So I offered to coach her on Nalhallan customs.’
‘Have you told her?’ I asked, soldiers bustling around me, carrying stacks of books.
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ Folsom said. ‘I mean, look at her. She’s amazing! I’m just a regular guy.’
‘A regular guy?’ I asked. ‘Folsom, you’re a Smedry. You’re nobility!’
‘Yeah,’ he said,
looking down. ‘But I mean, that’s just a name. I’m a boring person, when you get down to it. Who thinks a critic is interesting?’
I resisted pointing out that Librarians weren’t exactly known for being the most exciting people either.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t know a lot about things like this, but it seems to me that if you love her, you should say so. I—’
At that moment, Prince Rikers walked up. ‘Hey, look!’ he said, proffering a book. ‘They have one of my novels in here! Preserved for all of posterity. The music even still works. See!’
He opened the cover.
And so, of course, Folsom punched me in the face.
16
Now, I would like to make it clear that violence is rarely the best solution to problems.
For instance, the next time you get attacked by a group of angry ninjas, one solution would be to kick the lead ninja, steal his katana, and proceed to slay the rest of the group in an awesome display of authorial fury. While this might be fulfilling – and a little bit fun – it would also be rather messy, and would earn you the ire of an entire ninja clan. They’d send assassins after you for the rest of your life. (Having to fight off a ninja in the middle of a date can be quite embarrassing.)
So instead of fighting, you could bribe the ninjas with soy sauce, and then send them to attack your siblings instead. That way, you can get rid of some unwanted soy sauce. See how easy it is to avoid violence?
Now, there are some occasions when violence is appropriate. Usually, those are occasions when you want to beat the tar out of somebody. Unfortunately, ‘somebody’ at this moment happened to be me. Folsom’s punch was completely unexpected, and it hit me full in the face.
Right then, I realized something quite interesting: That was the first time I’d ever been punched. It was a special moment for me. I’d say it was a little like being kicked, only with more knuckles and a hint of lemon.
Maybe the lemon part was just my brain short-circuiting as I was tossed backward onto the chamber’s glass floor. The blow left me dazed, and by the time I finally shook myself out of it, the scene in front of me was one of total chaos.
The soldiers were trying to subdue Folsom. They didn’t want to hurt him, as he was a nobleman; they were forced to try to grab him and hold him down. It wasn’t working very well. Folsom fought with a strange mixture of terrified lack of control and calculated precision. He was like a puppet being controlled by a kung fu master. Or maybe vice versa. A trite melody played in the background – my theme music, apparently.
Folsom moved among the soldiers in a blur of awkward (yet somehow well-placed) kicks, punches, and head-butts. He’d already knocked down a good ten soldiers, and the other ten weren’t doing much better.
‘It’s so exciting!’ the prince said. ‘I hope somebody is taking notes! Why didn’t I bring any of my scribes? I should send for some!’ Rikers stood a short distance from the center of the fight.
Please punch him, I thought, standing up on shaky knees. Just a little bit.
But it wasn’t to be – Folsom was focused on the soldiers. Himalaya was calling for the soldiers to try to get their hands over Folsom’s ears. Where was Bastille? She should have come running at the sounds of the fight.
‘The Alcatraz Smedry Theme’ continued to play its peppy little melody, coming from somewhere near the prince. ‘Prince Rikers!’ I yelled. ‘The book! Where is it? We have to close it!’
‘Oh, what?’ He turned. ‘Um, I think I dropped it when the fight started.’
He was standing near a pile of unsorted books. I cursed, scrambling toward the pile. If we could stop the music, Folsom would stop dancing.
At that moment the battle shifted in my direction. Folsom – his eyes wide with worry and displaying a distinct lack of control – spun through a group of soldiers, throwing four of them into the air.
I stood facing him. I didn’t think he’d do me any serious harm. I mean, Smedry Talents are unpredictable, but they rarely hurt people too badly.
Except . . . hadn’t I used my own Talent to break some arms and cause monsters to topple to their deaths?
Crud, I thought. Folsom raised his fist and prepared to punch directly at my face.
And my Talent engaged.
One of the odd things about Smedry Talents, mine in particular, is how they sometimes act proactively. Mine breaks weapons at a distance if someone tries to kill me.
In this case, something dark and wild seemed to rip from me. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it snapping toward Folsom. His eyes opened wide, and he tripped, his graceful martial-arts power failing him for a brief moment. It was as if he’d suddenly lost his Talent.
He toppled to the ground before me. At that moment, a book in the pile beside me exploded, throwing up scraps of paper and glass. The music stopped.
Folsom groaned. The trip left him kneeling right in front of me, confettilike scraps of paper falling around us. The beast within me quieted, pulling back inside, and all fell still.
When I’d been young, I’d thought of my Talent as a curse. Now I’d begun thinking of it as a kind of wild super-power. This was the first time, however, that I thought of it as something foreign inside of me.
Something alive.
‘That was incredible!’ said one of the soldiers. I looked up and saw the soldiers regarding me with awe. Himalaya seemed stunned. The prince stood with his arms folded, smiling in contentment at finally getting to witness a battle.
‘I saw it,’ one of the soldiers whispered, ‘like a wave of power, pulsing out of you, Lord Smedry. It stopped even another Talent.’
It felt good to be admired. It made me feel like a leader. Like a hero. ‘See to your friends,’ I said, pointing to the fallen soldiers. ‘Give me a report on the wounded.’ I reached down, helping Folsom to his feet.
He looked down in shame, as Himalaya walked over to comfort him. ‘Well, I give myself nine out of ten points for being an idiot,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I let that happen. I should be able to control it!’
‘I know how hard it is,’ I said. ‘Trust me. It wasn’t your fault.’
Prince Rikers walked over to join us, his blue robes swishing. ‘That was wonderful,’ he said. ‘Though it’s kind of sad how the book turned out.’
‘I’m heartbroken,’ I said flatly, glancing about for Bastille. Where was she?
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ Rikers said, reaching into his pocket. ‘They have the sequel here too!’ He pulled out a book and moved to open the cover.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I snapped, grabbing his arm.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yeah, probably a bad idea.’ He glanced at my grip on his arm. ‘You know, you remind me a lot of my sister. I thought you’d be a little less uptight.’
‘I’m not uptight,’ I snapped. ‘I’m annoyed. There’s a difference. Himalaya, how’s the sorting going?’
‘Uh, maybe halfway done,’ she said. Indeed, the mountains of books were quickly becoming large stacks, like walls. A much smaller stack was particularly interesting to me – it contained books in the Forgotten Language.
There were only four so far, but it was amazing to me that we’d even managed to find them among all the other books. I walked over to the stack, fishing in my jacket pocket for my pair of Translator’s Lenses.
I swapped them for my Oculator’s Lenses. I almost forgot that I was wearing those. They were starting to feel natural to me, I guess. With the Translator’s Lenses on, I could read the titles of the books.
One appeared to be some kind of philosophical work on the nature of laws and justice. Interesting, but I couldn’t see it being important enough for my mother to risk so much in order to get.
The other three books were unimpressive. A manual on building chariots, a ledger talking about the number of chickens a particular merchant traded in Athens, and a cookbook. (Hey, I guess even ancient, all-powerful lost societies needed help baking cookies.)
I checked with the soldiers and w
as relieved to find that none of them was seriously wounded. Folsom had knocked out no fewer than six of them, and some others had broken several limbs. The wounded left for the infirmary and the others returned to helping Himalaya. None of them had seen Bastille.
I wandered through what was quickly becoming a maze of enormous book stacks. Maybe Bastille was looking for signs of the diggers breaking into the room. The scraping sounds had been coming from the southeast corner, but when I neared, I couldn’t hear them anymore. Had my mother realized we were on to her? With that sound gone, I could hear something else.
Whispering.
Curious, and a little creeped out, I walked in the direction of the sound. I turned a corner around a wall-like stack of books, and found a little dead-end hollow in the maze.
Bastille lay there, curled up on the cold glass floor whispering to herself and shivering. I cursed, rushing over to kneel beside her. ‘Bastille?’
She curled up a little bit further. Her Warrior’s Lenses were off, clutched in her hand. I could see a haunted cast to her eyes. A sense of loss, of sorrow, of having had something deep and tender ripped from her, never to be returned.
I felt powerless. Had she been hurt? She shivered and moved, then looked up at me, eyes focusing. She seemed to realize for the first time that I was there.
She immediately pushed away from me and sat up. Then she sighed and wrapped her arms around her knees, bowing her head between them. ‘Why is it that you always see me like this?’ she asked quietly. ‘I’m strong, I really am.’
‘I know you are,’ I said, feeling awkward and embarrassed.
We remained like that for a time, Bastille unresponsive, me feeling like a complete idiot, even though I wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong. (Note to all the young men reading this: Get used to that.)
‘So . . .’ I said. ‘Er . . . you’re still having trouble with that severing thing?’
She looked up, eyes red like they’d been scratched with sandpaper. ‘It’s like . . .’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘It’s like I used to have memories. Fond ones, of places I loved, of people I knew. Only now they’re gone. I can feel the place where they were, and it’s a hole, ripped open inside of me.’
Alcatraz Page 52