Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (12 page)

"Tripping. That's what we call a knowledge Talent
–
he knows how to do something normal with extraordinary
ability. Like Australia, though, his power isn't very flexible.
In that case, we put them at the edge of the wheel near the
rim. Talents like my father's, which are more powerful, we
place closer to the center."

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

Bastille had returned, and was watching with interest.

"Well, it's hard to say," Kaz said. "You're getting into
some deep philosophy now, kid. There are those who argue
that the Breaking T
a
lent is simply a physical-world T
a
lent,
but one that is very versatile and very powerful."

He met my eyes, then poked his stick into the very center
of the circle. "There are others who argue that the Breaking
Ta
lent is much more. It seems to be able to do things that
affect all four areas. Legends say th
at one of your ancestors – one
of only two others to have this Talent
–
broke
time and
space together
forming a little bubble where nothing aged.

"Other records speak of breakings equally marvelous.
Breakings that change people's memory or their abilities.
What is it to 'break' something? What can you change?
How far can the T
a
lent go?"

He raised his stick, pointing at me. "Either way, kid,
that's
why it's so hard for you to control. To be honest, even
after centuries of studying them, we really don't understand the T
a
lents. I don't know that we ever will, though
your father was very keen on trying."

Kaz stood up, dusting off his hands.
“
And that's why he
came here, I guess."

"How do you know so much?" I asked.

Kaz raised an eyebrow. "What? You think I spend all my
time making up witty lists and getting lost on my way to
the bathroom? I have a job, kid."

"Lord Kazan's a scholar," Bastille said. "Focusing on
arcane theory."

"Gr
eat," I said, rolling my eyes.
Another professor."
After Grandpa Smedry, Si
ng, and Quentin, I was half con
vinced that everyone who lived in the Free Kingdoms was
one kind of academic or another.

Kaz shrugged. "It's a Smedry trait, kid. We tend to be
very interested in information. Either way, your father was
the real genius
–
I
'
m
just a humble philosopher. Bastille,
how's the pathway up ahead look?"

"Clean," she said. "No trip wires that I found."

"Great," he said
.

"You actually seem a bit disappointed."

Kaz shrugged. "T
r
aps are interesting. They're always a
surprise, kind of like presents on your birthday
.
''

"Except these presents might decapitate you," Bastille
said flatly.

“
All part of the fun, Bastille."

She sighed, shooting me a glance over her sunglasses.
Smedrie
s
, it seemed to say.
All the same.

I smiled at her, and nodded for us to get moving.
Kaz took the lead. As we walked, I noticed that a couple
of
C
urators were busy copying down Kaz's drawing. I
turned
away, then jumped as I found a C
urator hanging
beside me.

"The Incarna knew about
S
medry T
a
lents,
”
the thing
whispered. "
W
e have a book here, one of theirs, written
millennia ago. It explains exactly
w
here the T
a
lents first
came from.
W
e have one of only two copies that still
exist."

It hovered closer.

"You can have it,
”
the creature whispered
.
"
C
heck it out,
if you wish."

I snorted. "I'm not that curious. I'd be a fool to give you
my soul for information I could never use."

“
Ah, but maybe you could use it," the curator said.
"
W
hat could you accomplish if you understood your
Talent, young Smedry? Would
y
ou, perhaps, have enough
skill to gain your freedom from us? Get your soul back?
Break
out of our prison . . ."

This gave me pause. It made a twisted, frightening
sense. Maybe
I
could
trade my soul away,
then learn how to
free myself using the book I gained.
“
It
’s possible, then?”
I asked.
“
Someone could break free after having been
turned into a Curator?"

"Anything is possible,
" the creature whispered, focus
ing its burning sockets on me.
"Why don't you try? You
could learn so much. Things people haven't known for
millennia . . ."

It is a testament to the subtle trickery of the Curators
that I actually thought, for just a moment, about trading
my soul for a book on arcane theory.

And then I came to my senses. I couldn't even control
my Talent as it was.
W
hat m
ade me think that I, of all peo
ple, would be able to use it to outsmart a group as ancient
and powerful as the Curators of Alexandria?

I chuckled and shook my head, causing the Curator to
back away in obvious displeasure. I hurried
my pace, catch
ing up with the others. Kaz walked in front, leading us as
he had before, letting his Talent lose us and carry us toward
Australia. Theoretically.

Indeed, as I walked, I swore that I could see the stacks
of scrolls changing around us. It was
n't that they trans
formed or anything
–
yet, if I glanced at a stack, then
turned away, then glanced back, I couldn't tell if it was
actually the same one or not. Kaz's Talent was carrying us
through the corridors without our being able to feel the
change.

Something occurred to me...Kaz?"

The short man looked back, raising an eyebrow.

"So . . . your T
a
lent has lost us, right?"

"Yup," he said.

“
As we walk, we're
moving through the Library hop
ping to different points, even though we feel like we're just
walking down a corridor."

"You've got it, kid. I've got to tell you
–
you're smarter
than you look."

I frowned. "
S
o, what exactly was the purpose of having
Bastille scout ahead? Didn't we leave that corridor behind
the moment you turned on your T
a
lent?"

Kaz froze.

At that moment, I heard something click beneath me. I
looked down with shock to see that I'd stepped directly
onto a trip wire.

“A
h, wing nuts," Kaz swore.

I must apologize
for the beginning of that last
chapter. My goal is to write a completely frivolous book, for
if I actually say anything important, I run the risk of making
people worship or respect me even more. Therefore, I should
ask that
you
will do me a favor. Get out some scissors, and
cut out the next few paragraphs in this chapter. Paste them
over the beginning of the last chapter, hiding it away so that
you never have to read its pretentious editorializing again.

Ready? Go.

Once there was a bunny. This bunny had a birthday
party.
It was the bestest birthday party ever. Because that
was the day the bunny got a bazooka.

The bunny loved his bazooka. He blew up all sorts of
things on the farm. He blew up the stable of Henrietta the
Horse. He blew up the pen of Pugsly the Pig. He blew up
the coop of Chuck the Chicken.

"I have the bestest bazooka ever," the bunny said. Then
the farm friends proceeded to beat him senseless and steal
his bazooka. It was the happiest day of his life.

The end.

Epilogue:
P
ugsly the pig, now without a pen, was quite
annoyed.
W
hen none of the others were looking, he stole
the bazooka. He tied a ba
ndana on his head and swore ven
geance for what had been done to him.

"From this day o
n
," he whispered, raising the bazooka,
"I shall be known as
Hambo
.”

There. I feel much better. Now we can return to the
story, refreshed and confident that you're reading the right
kind of book.

I cringed, tense, looking down
at my foot on the trip
wire. "So," I said, glancing at Bastille,
“is it going to do any –“

"Gak!"

At that moment, panels on the ceiling
fe
l
l away
dump
ing what se
emed like a thousand buckets ful
l of dark, sticky
sludge on us. I tried to move out of the way, but I was far
too slow. Ev
en Bastille, with her enhanced C
rystin speed,
couldn't dodge fast enough.

It hit, covering us in a tarlike substance. I tried to
yell, but the sound came out in a gurgle as the thick, black
material got into my mouth. It had a rather unpleasant
flavor. Kind of like a cross between bananas and tar,
heavy on the tar.

I struggled and was
frustrated to feel the goop sud
denly harden. I was f
r
ozen in place, one eye open, the
other closed, my mouth filled with hard tar, my nose
–
fortunately
–
u
nplugged.

"Great," Bastille said. I could just barely see her, cover
e
d
in hardened sludge a shor
t distance away, stuck in a run
ning posture. She'd had the sense to shade her face, so her
eyes and mouth were uncovered
–
but her arm was glued
to her
forehead."
Kaz,
you
stuck too?"

"Yeah," said a muffled voice. "I tried to lose myself, but
it didn't work. We were already lost."

"Alcatraz?" Bastille asked.

I made a grumbling noise through my nose.

"He looks all right,”
Kaz
said. "He isn't going to be waxing eloquent anytime soon, though.”

"As if he ever does," Bastille said, struggling.

Enough of this
, I thought in annoyance, releasing my
Talent into the goop. Not
hing happened. There are, unfor
tunately, plenty of things that are resistant to Smedry
Talents.

S
everal
C
urators glided across the floor to us, looking
quite pleased with themselves. "
W
e can provide a book for
you that
w
ill explain how to get out," one said.

"You will find it very interesting," said another.

"
S
hatter yourselves," Bastille snapped, grunting again
as she tried to get free. Nothing moved
but her chin.

"
W
hat kind of offer is that?" Kaz demanded.
“W
e
wouldn't be able to read the book like this!"

"W
e'd be happy to read it to you," one of the others
said. "
S
o that you would
u
nderstand how to escape in the
moments before your soul was taken."

"Plus," another whisper
ed, "you would have all of eter
nity to study.
S
urely that must appeal to you, a scholar.
An
eternity with the knowledge of the Library. All at your
fingertips."

"Never able to leave
,”
Kaz
said.
"Trapped forever in this
pit, forced to entice others into the trap."

"Your brother thought the trade worthwhile," one of
them whispered.

What
! I thought.
Father
!

"You lie," Kaz said. “
Attica would never fall for one of
your tricks!"

"We didn't have to trick him," another whispered, floating close to me. "He came quite willingly. All for a book.
A single, special book."

"What book?" Bastille asked.

The Curators fell silent, skull heads smiling. "Will you
trade your soul for that knowledge?"

Bastille began to swear, struggling harder. The Curators
moved around her, speaking in a language that my Lenses
told me was classical Greek.

If I could just get to my Windstormer's Lenses
, I thought.
Perhaps I could blow some of this goop away.

I couldn't even wiggle my fingers, though, let alone
reach into my jacket.

If only my Talent would work
! I focused, drawing forth
all of the power I could, and released it into the goop. Yet,
it refused to break or yield.

Something occurred to me. The goop was resistant, but
what about the f
loor beneath me? I gathered my T
alent
again, then released it downward.

I strained, feeling the pulsings of energy run through
my body and out my feet. I
felt my shoes unravel, the rub
ber slipping free, the canvas falling apart. I felt the rock
beneath my heels crumbl
e. But, that was ultimately use
less, since my body was still held tightly by the goop. The
g
round fell away beneath me, but
I didn't fall with it.

The C
urator closest to me turned.
“
Are you certain you
don't want that book on Ta
lents, young
O
culator?
P
erhaps
it would help you free yourself."

Focus
, I thought as the rest of the
C
urators continued
to
torment BastiIle.
They said tha
t there's a book on how to
escape
this goop.
W
ell
, that means there's a way out.

I continued struggling, but that was obviously useless.
If it was possible to break free with just muscles, then
Bastille would manage to long before I did.

So, instead, I focused on the goop itself.
W
hat could I
determine about it? The stuff in my mouth seemed slightly
softer than the stuff around the outside of my body.
W
as
there a reason for that?
Spit, perhaps? Ma
ybe the goop
didn't harden when it was wet.

I began to drool out some saliva, trying to get it on the
goop.
S
pit began to seep out of the top of my mouth, and
down the front of the glob of goop on my face.

“
Uh . .
. Alcatraz?" Bastille asked. "Y
ou all right?
”

I tried to grunt in a reassuring way. But, then, I've found
that it's very hard to grunt eloquently when you're spitting.

After several minutes,
I came to the unpleasant conclu
sion that the goop didn't dissolve in saliva. Unfortunately,
now I was not only being held tightly by
a
sheet of hardened
black tar, I'd also d
rooled all over the front of my
shirt.

"Getting frustrated?" a Curator asked, hovering around
me in a circle. "How l
ong will you struggle? You need
not
be able to speak. Simply blink three times if you want to
trade your soul for the way out."

I kept my eyes wide open. They began to dry out, which
was appropriately iro
nic, considering the state of m
y shirt.

The Curator loo
ked disappointed, but continued
to
hover.
Why
bother with all of the cajoling
?
I wondered.
We're
in their power. Why not kill us? Why not just take our souls
from us by force
?

That thought made me pause. If they hadn't do
ne
that
already, then it
probably meant that they
couldn
'
t
.
Which
seemed to imply th
at they were bound by some kind
of
laws or a code or something.

My jaw was getting tired. It seemed an odd thing
to
think of. I was being held tightly in all places, and I was
worried about my jaw? Was that because it wasn't being
held as tightly as the rest? But, I'd already determined that.

The goop in my mouth wasn't as hard.

S
o, uncertain what el
se to do, I bit down. Hard. Sur
prisingly, my teeth cut through the stuff, and the chunk
of goop came off in my m
outh. Suddenly, the entire blan
ket of it
–
the
stuff covering me
, Bastille, Kaz, and the
floor
–
shuddered.

W
hat
? I thought. The stuff I'd bitten off immedia
t
ely
became liquid again, and I nearly choked as I was forced to
swallow it. The piece in front of my face withdrew slightly
after the bite, and I could still see it wiggling. Almost as
if…
the entire blob were alive.

I shivered. Yet, I didn't have many options. Wiggling my
head a bit
–
it was looser now that the stuff had retreated
from my face
–
I snapped forward and took another bite
out of the stuff. It shook and pulled farther away.
I leaned
over, and
–
spitting out the chunk of tarry-bananaish
stuff
–
I took another bite.

The blanket of goop pulled back from me completely,
like a shy dog that had been kicked. The metaphor seemed
apt, and so I kicked it.

The blob shook, then retreated off of Bastille and Kaz,
fleeing away down the corri
dor. I spit a few times, grimac
ing at the taste. Then I eyed the
C
urators. "
P
erhaps you
should train your traps a little better."

T
hey did not look pleased.
Kaz, on the other hand, was
smiling widely. "Kid, I'm almost tempted to make you an
official short person!"

"Thanks," I said.

"Course, we'd have to cut your legs off at the knees,"
Kaz said. "But that would be a small price to pay!" He
winked at me. I'm pretty sure that was a joke.

I shook my head, stepping out of the rubbled pocket
I'd made in the floor with my T
a
lent. My shoes barely
hung to my feet, and I kicked them off, forced to walk
barefoot.

Still, I'd gotten us free
. I turned, smiling, to Bastille
.
"Well, I believe that makes two traps I've saved you from."

"Oh?" she said.
“
And are we going to start a count of the
ones you got me
into
, as well?
Who
was it who stepped on
that trip wire again?"

I flushed.

“An
y one of us could have t
ripped it, Bastille," Kaz said,
walking up to us. "As fun as that was
,
I'm starting to think
it might be a good idea if we didn't hit any more of those.
We need to go more carefully."

"You think?" Bastille asked flatly. "The trick is, I can't
scout ahead. Not i
f you're leading us with your Ta
lent."

"
W
e'll just have to be more cautious, then,
”
Kaz
said. I
looked down at the trip wire, thinking about the danger.
W
e couldn't afford to stumble into every one of those we
came across.
W
ho knew if we'd even be able to think of a
way out of the next one?

"Kaz, Bastille, wait a second.”
I reached into a pocket,
pulling out my Lenses. I left the
W
indstormer's Lenses
alone and put on the Discerner's Lenses
–
the ones that
Grandpa Smedry had left for me up above.

Immedi
ately, everything around me began to give off a
faint glo
w,
indicating how old it was. I looked down. Sure
enough, the trip wire glowed far lighter than the stones or
the scrolls around it. It
was newer than the original con
struction of the building. I looked up, smiling.
“
I think I've
found a way around the problem."

“
Are those Discerner's Lenses?" Bastille asked.

I nodded.

"Where in the sands did you
get a pair of those?”

"Grandpa Smedry left them
for me,” I said. “Outside,
along with a note." I frowned,
glancing at the Curators.
"
S
peaking of which, didn
’
t you
say you’d return the writ
ings you took from me?"

The creatures glanced at one another. Then, one of
them approached, betraying a sullen look. The apparition
bent down and set some things on the ground: copies of
my tags, the wrapper that had been taken from me, and
Grandpa Smedry's note. There were also copies of the
money I'd given them - they were perfect replicas, except
that they were colorless.

Great
, I thought.
But
I probably didn't need that any
more anyway
. I stooped down to gather the things, which
all glowed brightly, since
they all had been created
brand
new
. Bastille took the note, looked it over with a frown,
then handed it to Kaz.

"So, your father really is down here somewhere,"
she said.

"Looks like it."

“
And . . . the Curators claim he already gave up his soul."