Alcatraz versus the Knights of Crystallia (6 page)

"
T
hey did?"

"Of course," Bastille said.
"They have an ambassador in
t
own and we're going to stop them from taking over Mokia.
He
nce, they
tried to kill us.
Once the Librarians try
to blow
y
o
u up a few dozen times, you get used to it."

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

"My mother's," Bastille replied.
"We think it might have
been
from some Detonator's Glass slipped into her pack
bef
ore she left Nalhalla.
She carried that pack all the way
t
hr
ough 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
m
y 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."

"
W
ho?" 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
L
ibrarians who have ever made any kind of effort to work
wi
th
the Free Kingdoms, rather than just trying to conquer
u
s.
This ambassador has convinced the Council of Kings
th
at she is serious."

I listened, interested,
but not quite sure why my grandfather
wanted me to know this.
I'm a rather awesome person
(
h
ave I mentioned that?)
but I'm really not that great at
politics.
It's one of the three
things I've no experience what
so
e
ver doing, the other two being writing books and
atm
ospheric rocket-propelled penguin riding.
(Stupid
re
sponsibility.)

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

"Everything, lad, everything!" Grandpa Smedry pointed
a
t me.
"We're Smedrys.
When we gave up our kingdom, w
e
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.

T
his was different.
I understood then why my grandfathe
r had called me over.
He wanted me to be part of
t
h
is
–
not
just a kid who tags along, but a full participant.

Something tells me I'd have been much better off hiding
i
n
m
y 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
again
st the ground.

We had arrived.

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 prev
ious two books of my autobiogra
phy (as I'm sure by now you have),
y
ou 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 no
w
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
l
ike 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
t
o
c
onvince you readers that I'm a terrible person is to show
y
ou how arrogant and self-centered I am.
I'll do this by
t
alk
ing about my virtues.
Incessantly.
All the time.
Until
you’re
completely sick of hearing about my superiority.

Ma
ybe then you'll understand.

T
he royal palace of Nalhalla turned out to be the white,
py
ramid-like castle at the center of the city.
I stepped from
the
gondola, trying not to gawk as
I gazed up at the magn
i
fi
cent building.
The stonework was carved up as high as I
cou
ld see.

"Forward!" Grandpa Smedry said, rushing up the steps
like
a general running into battle. He's remarkably spry for
a pe
rson 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
st
e
ps, her armor clinking.

I frowned. Usually, Draulin was very keen on making
B
astille 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 writ
ing my memoirs and understood that a lot of people might
be confused about this point.
Therefore, using my powers
of awso
m
osity, 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 fam
il
y
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.

S
omething about that thought bothered
me,
but I
c
ouldn
’
t quite put my finger on it.
Probably because the
t
hought 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.

B
esides, the beauty of the hallway beyond those doors
stopped me flat and cast all thoughts from my mind.

I'm no poet.
Anytime I try to write poetry, it comes out
a
s insults.
I probably should have been a rapper, or at least
a
politician. Regardless, I sometimes find it hard to express
be
auty through words.

Suffice it to say that the enormous hallway stunned me,
e
ven after seeing a city full o
f castles, even after being car
ried on a dragon's back.
The hallway was big.
It was white.
It was lined with what appeared to be pictures, but there
was nothing in the frames.
Other than glass.

D
i
ff
e
rent kinds of glass
,
I rea
liz
ed as we walked down the
magnificent hallway.
Here, the glass is the art!
Indeed, each
framed piece of glass was a different color.
Plaques
at the top listed the types of glass.
I recognized some,
and most of them glowed faintly.
I was wearing my
Oculator's Lenses, which a
llowed me to see auras of power
ful glass.

In a Hushlander palace, the kings showed off their gold
and their silver.
Here, the kings showed off their rare and
expensive pieces of glass.

I watched in wonder, wishing Sing and Grandpa Smedry
weren't rushing so quickly.
We eventually turned through a
set of doors and entered a long rectangular chamber filled
with elevated seats on both the right and the left.
Most of
these were filled with peo
ple who quietly watched the pro
ceedings below.

In the center of the room sat a broad table at which were
seated about two dozen men and women wearing rich
clothing of many exotic designs.
I spotted King Dartmoor
i
mm
ediately.
He was sitting on an elevated chair at the end
of
the table.
Clothed in regal blue-and-gold robes, he wore
a full
red beard, and my
O
culator's Lenses
–
which
sometim
es enhanced the images of people and places I looked
a
t
–
made
him seem slightly taller
than he really
was.
More
n
oble, larger than life.

I stopped in the doorway.
I'd never been in the presence
of
royalty befor
e
, and –