Alcatraz versus the Knights of Crystallia (23 page)

She had a point.
"You know a lot more about Lenses
than I do, Bastille
,”
I admi
tted. "But I think there's some
thing odd about all of this.
Smedry T
a
lents, the
O
culator's
Lenses, brightsand . . . it's all connected
.
"

She
eyed
me.
"
W
hat
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.
O
n one wall, there was a small shelf
with some glass equip
ment on it. "Your Highness,
what's that?"

Prince Rikers turned.
“Ah! My new silimatic phono
graph!
Hav
en'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,
Al
catraz," the prince said.
“
It needs a
silimatic power
plate or some brightsand to –“

I channeled power into the glass.
Not breaking power
from my T
a
lent, 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, oth
erwise he would have begun to
“dance.”

"H
e
y, 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
O
culatory Lenses and regular
technological glass might just be
the same thing.”

"That's impossible," she said.
“
If that were so, then you
could power
O
cul
ator'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 approaching 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, look
ing 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 t
wo of them, who sat on the blan
ket 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
l
supposed
to
know
they
were
in
love!''
I
snap
p
ed, rushing u
p to her.

"Idiot
,”
she re
peated.

"Look, she
could
still be a spy
.
Why
, maybe she's seduc
ing Folsom to get at his secrets!"

"
S
eductions don't look so cutesy
,”
Bastille said as we
ap
proached
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
Himala
ya?" 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
Libr
arians were good at saying half-
truths, which might get
them around my Truthfinder's Lens."

“
Are you saying half-truths?" Bastille said.
"Are you try
i
n
g 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 prin
cess
–
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.
)

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.
W
ouldn't it be more useful for me to talk to
someone who likes something else?
M
a
yb
e
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.)

No
t
a library.

Bastille in her Warrior's Le
nses 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, turn
ing and looking back.

"Why are you here?" I said.