I shook my head. "I don't know. She . . . doesn't quite fit with the others. She's something different." My grandfather had once said that her motivations were confusing, even to other Librarians.
She had the Lenses of Rashid; if she found an Oculator to help her she could read the Forgotten Language. That made her very, very dangerous. Why had she been at that party? Had she spoken with my father? Had she been trying to do something to the prince?
"Let's get back to the castle," I said. Perhaps Grandpa Smedry would be able to help.
CHAPTER 9
Chapter breaks are very useful. They let you skip a lot of boring parts of stories. For instance, after tailing – then losing – my mother, we had a pleasant drive back to Keep Smedry. The most exciting thing that happened was when we stopped so that Folsom could use the restroom.
Characters in books, you may have noticed, rarely have to go potty. There are several reasons for this. Many books – unlike this one – simply aren't real, and everyone knows fictional characters can "hold it" as long as they need to. They just wait until the end of the book before using the restroom.
In books like this one, which are real, we have more problems. After all, we're not fictional characters, so we have to wait until chapter breaks, when nobody is looking. It can get hard for longer chapters, but we're quite self-sacrificing. (I really feel sorry for the people in Terry Pratchett's novels, though.)
Our carriage pulled up to the dark, stone Keep Smedry, and I was surprised to see a small crowd gathered in front.
"Not this again," Himalaya said with a sigh as some of the people began to wave pieces of glass in my direction, taking images of me in the strange Free Kingdoms way.
"Sorry," Folsom said with a grimace. "We can send them away, if you want."
"Why would we do that?" I asked. After the disappointment of losing Shasta, it felt good to see people eager to praise me again.
Folsom and Himalaya exchanged a look. "We'll be inside, then," Folsom said, helping Himalaya down. I jumped out, then went to meet with my adoring fans.
The first ones to rush up to me carried pads of paper and quills. They all talked over one another, so I tried to quiet them down by raising my hands. That didn't work; they all just kept talking, trying to get my attention.
So I broke the sound barrier.
I'd never done it before, but my Talent can do some really wacky things. I was standing there, frustrated, hands in the air, wishing I could get them to be quiet. Then my Talent engaged, and there were twin CRACK sounds in the air, like a pair of whips snapping.
The people fell silent. I started, surprised by the tiny sonic booms I'd made.
"Er, yes," I said. "What do you want? And before you start arguing, let's start with you on the end."
"Interview," the man said. He wore a hat like Robin Hood. "I represent the Eastern Criers Guild. We want to do a piece on you."
"Oh," I said. That sounded cool. "Yeah, we can do that. But not right now. Maybe later tonight?"
"Before or after the vote?" the man asked.
Vote? I thought. Oh, right. The vote about the treaty with the Librarians. "Uh, after the vote."
The others began to talk, so I raised my hands threateningly and quieted them down. All were reporters, wanting interviews. I made appointments with each one, and they went on their way.
The next group of people approached. These didn't appear to be reporters of any sort, which was good. Reporters, it might be noted, are a lot like little brothers. They're talkative, annoying, and they tend to come in groups. Plus, if you yell at them, they get even in very unsettling ways.
"Lord Smedry," a stout man said. "I was wondering . . . My daughter is getting married this upcoming weekend. Would you perform the ceremony?"
"Uh, sure," I said. I'd been warned about this, but it was still something of a surprise.
He beamed, then told me where the wedding was. The next woman in line wanted me to represent her son in a trial and speak on his behalf. I wasn't sure what to do about that one) so I said I'd get back to her. The next man wanted me to seek out – then punish – a miscreant who had stolen some galfalgos from his garden. I made a mental note to ask someone what the heck galfalgos were, and told him I'd look into it.
There were some two dozen people with questions or requests like those. The more that was asked of me, the more uncomfortable I grew. What did I really know about any of this stuff? I finally cleared through that group, making vague promises to most of them.
There was one more group of people waiting for me. They were well-dressed younger men and women, in their late teens or early twenties. I recognized them from the party.
"Rodrayo?" I asked, to the guy at their lead.
"Hey," he said.
“And . . . what is it you want of me?" I asked.
A couple of them shrugged.
"Just thought being around you would be fun," Rodrayo said. "Mind if we party with you a little bit?"
“Oh," I said. "Well, sure, I guess."
I led the group through some hallways in Keep Smedry, getting lost, and trying to act like I knew where everything was. The hallways of Keep Smedry were appropriately medieval, though the castle was far more warm and homey than one might have expected. There were hundreds of rooms – the building was of mansion-sized proportions – and I really didn't know where I was going.
Eventually, I found some servants and had them take us to a denlike room, which had couches and a hearth. I wasn't certain what "partying with me" meant to Rodrayo and the others. Fortunately, they took the lead, sending the servants to get some food, then lounging around on the couches and chairs, chatting. I wasn't sure why they needed me there, or even who most of them were, but they'd read my books and thought my adventures were very impressive. That made them model citizens in my opinion.
I had just finished telling them about my fight with the paper monsters when I realized that I'd never checked in with Grandpa Smedry. It had been about five hours since we'd split up, and I was tempted to just let it slide until he came looking for me. But we needed more hooberstackers, and the servants had vanished, so I decided to leave my new friends and go looking for the servants to ask for a resupply. Maybe they'd know where my grandfather was.
However, finding servants proved more difficult than I'd assumed. I felt uncharacteristically fatigued as I wandered the hallways, even though I hadn't really done that much during the last couple of hours. Just sit around and be adored.
Eventually, I spotted a crack of light down one brickwalled corridor. It turned out to be coming from a half-open door, so I peeked inside. There, I found my father sitting at a desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment. An ancient-looking lamp gave off a flickering light, only faintly illuminating the room. I could see rich-looking furniture and sparkling bits of glass – Lenses and other Oculatory wonders, which seemed to have a glow about them because of my Oculator's Lenses. On his desk was a half-empty wineglass, and he still wore the antiquated suit he'd had on at the party, though he'd undone the ruffled tie. His shoulder-length hair was wavy and disheveled. He looked a lot like a Hushlands rock star after an evening performance.
As a child, I'd often dreamed about what my father would be like. The only facts I'd had to go on were that he'd named me after a prison and that he'd abandoned me. One would think that I would have imagined a terrible person. And yet, I'd secretly wished for there to be more. A good reason why he'd given me up. Something impressive and mysterious. I had wondered if, perhaps, he'd been involved in some dangerous line of work, and had sent me away to protect me.
Grandpa Smedry's arrival, and the discovery that my father was both alive and working to save the Free Kingdoms, fulfilled a lot of these secret wishes. Finally, I gained a picture of who my father might be. A dashing, heroic figure who hadn't wanted to get rid of me, but had been betrayed by his wife, then forced to give me up for the greater good.
That father in my dreams would have been excited to reunite
with his son. I'd been hoping for enthusiasm, not indifference. I'd imagined someone a little more like Indiana Jones, and a little less like Mick Jagger.
"Mother was there," I said, stepping into the doorway more fully.
My father didn't look up from his document. "Where?" he asked, not even jumping or looking surprised at the intrusion.
"At the party this afternoon. Did you see her?"
"Can't say that I did,” my father said.
"I was surprised to see you there."
My father didn't respond; he just scribbled something on his parchment. I couldn't figure him out – at the party, he had seemed completely involved in being a superstar. Now, at his desk, he was absorbed in his work.
"What are you working on?" I asked.
He sighed, finally looking up at me. "I understand that children sometimes need distractions. Is there something I can have the servants bring you? Entertainment? Just speak it, and I shall see it done."
"That's all right," I said. "Thanks."
He nodded and turned back to his work. The room fell still; the only sound was that of his quill scratching against parchment.
I left and didn't feel like searching out servants or my grandfather anymore. I just felt sick. Like I'd eaten three whole bags of Halloween candy, then been punched in the stomach. I wandered, vaguely making my way in the direction of where I'd left my new friends. When I arrived back at the den where I'd left them, however, I was surprised to see them being entertained by an unlikely figure.
"Grandpa?" I asked, looking in.
“Ah, Alcatraz, my boy," Grandpa Smedry said, perched atop a tall-legged chair. "Excellent to see you! I was just explaining to these fine young fellows that you'd be back very soon, and that they shouldn't worry about you."
They didn't seem all that worried, though they had found some more snacks somewhere – popcorn and hooberstackers. I stood at the doorway. For some reason, the idea of talking to my groupies in front of Grandpa Smedry made me feel even more sick.
"Not looking too well, my boy," Grandpa Smedry said, rising. "Maybe we should get you something for that."
"I . . . I think that would be nice," I said.
"We'll be back in a snap!" Grandpa Smedry said to the others, hopping off his chair. I followed him down the hallway until he stopped at a darkened stone intersection, turning to me. "I've got the perfect solution, lad! Just the thing to make you feel better in a jiffy."
"Great," I said. "What is it?"
He smacked me across the face.
I blinked in surprise. It hadn't really hurt, but it had been unexpected. "What was that?" I asked.
"I smacked you,” said Grandpa Smedry. Then, in a slightly lower tone, he added, "It's an old family remedy."
"For what?"
"Being a nigglenut," said Grandpa Smedry. He sighed, sitting down on the hallway carpeting. "Sit down, lad."
Still a little stunned, I did so.
"I just got done speaking with Folsom and his lovely friend Himalaya," Grandpa Smedry said, pleasantly smiling, as if he hadn't just smacked me in the face. "It seems that they think you are reckless!"
"That's a problem?"
"Velcroed Verns, of course not! I was quite proud to hear that. Recklessness and boldness, great Smedry traits. Thing is, they said some other things about you – things they'd only admit after I pushed them on it."
"What things?"
"That you're self-centered. That you think you're better than regular people, and that all you talk about is yourself. Now, this didn't sound like the Alcatraz I knew. Not at all. So I came back here to investigate – and what did I find? A pile of Attica's sycophants lounging about my castle, just like the old days."
"My father's sycophants?" I asked, glancing at the room a little down the hallway. "But they're fans of mine! Not my father's."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah, they've read my books. They talk about them all the time."
"Alcatraz, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said. "Have you read those books?"
“Well, no."
"Then how the blazes do you know what's in them?"
“Well, I . . ." This was frustrating. Didn't I deserve to finally have someone looking up to me, respecting me? Praising me?
"This is my fault," Grandpa Smedry said with a sigh.
"Should have prepared you better for the kinds of people you'd find here. But, well, I thought you'd use the Truthfinder's Lens.
The Truthfinder’s Lens. I'd almost forgotten about it – it could tell me when people were lying. I pulled it free from my pocket, then glanced at Grandpa Smedry. He nodded back down the hallway, so hesitantly I stood up and took off my Oculator's Lenses, walking down the hallway to the room.
I looked in, holding the Truthfinder's Lens in front of my eye.
"Alcatraz!" Rodrayo said. "We've missed you!" As he spoke, he seemed to spit mouthfuls of black beetles from his mouth. They squirmed and writhed, and I jumped backward, removing the Lens. The beetles vanished when I did so. I hesitantly replaced the Lens.
"Alcatraz?" Rodrayo asked. "What's wrong? Come in, we want to hear more about your adventures."
More beetles. I could only assume that meant he was lying.
"Hey," said Jasson, "yeah. Those stories are fun!"
Lying.
"There's the greatest man in the city!" another said, pointing at me.
Lying.
I stumbled away from the room, then fled back down the hallway. Grandpa Smedry waited for me, still sitting on the floor. "So," I said, sitting down next to him. "It's all lies. Nobody really looks up to me."
"Lad, lad," Grandpa Smedry said, laying a hand on my shoulder. "They don't know you. They only know the stories and the legends! Even that lot in there, useless though they tend to be, have their good points. But everyone is going to assume that because they've heard so much about you, they know you."
They were wise words. Prophetic, in a way. Ever since I left the Hushlands, I've felt like every person who looked at me saw someone different, and I wasn't any of them. My reputation only grew more daunting after the events at the Library of Congress and the Spire of the World.
"It's not easy to be famous," Grandpa Smedry said. "We all deal with it differently. Your father gluts himself on his fame, then flees from it. I tried for years to teach him to keep his ego in check, but I fear I have failed."
"I thought . . ." I said, looking down. "I thought if he heard people talking about how wonderful I was, he might actually look at me once in a while."
Grandpa Smedry fell silent. “Ah, lad,” he finally said. "Your father is . . . well, he is what he is. We just have to do our best to love him. But I worry that the fame will do to you what it's done to him. That's why I was so excited that you found that Truthfinder's Lens."
"I thought it was for me to use on the Librarians."
"Ha!" Grandpa Smedry said. “Well, it could be of some use against them – but a clever Librarian agent will know not to say any direct lies, lest they get caught in them."
"Oh," I said, putting the Truthfinder's Lens away.
“Anyway, you look better, lad! Did the old family remedy work? We can try again if you want. . . ."
"No, I feel much better," I said, holding up my hands.
"Thanks, I guess. Though it was nice to feel like I had friends."
"You do have friends! Even if you are kind of ignoring them at the moment."
"Ignoring them?" I said. "I haven't been ignoring anyone."
"Oh? And where's Bastille?"
"She ran off on me," I said. "To be with the other knights."
Grandpa Smedry snorted. "To go on trial, you mean."
“An unfair trial," I spat. "She didn't break her sword – it was my fault."
"Hum, yes," Grandpa Smedry said. "If only there were someone willing to speak on her behalf."
"Wait," I said. "I can do that?"
"What did I tell you about being a Smedry, lad?"
"That we could marry
people," I said, "and arrest people, and . . ." And that we could demand a right to testify in legal cases.
I stood up, shocked. "I've been an idiot!"
"I prefer the term 'nigglenut,"' Grandpa Smedry said. "Though that's probably because I just made it up and feel a certain paternal sense toward it." He smiled, winking.
"Is there still time?" I asked. "Before her trial, I mean?"
"It's been going on all afternoon," Grandpa Smedry said, pulling out an hourglass. “And they're probably almost ready to render judgment. Getting there in time will be tricky. Limping Lowrys, if only we could teleport there via use of a magical glass box sitting in the basement of this very castle!"
He paused. "Oh, wait, we can!" He leaped to his feet. "Let's go! We're late!"
CHAPTER 10
There's a dreadful form of torture in the Hushlands, devised by the Librarians. Though this is supposed to be a book for all ages, I feel that it's time to confront this disturbing and cruel practice. Somebody has to be brave enough to shine a light on it.
That's right. It's time to talk about after-school specials.
After-school specials are a type of television programming that the Librarians put on right when children get home from school. The specials are usually about some kid who is struggling with a nonsensical problem like bullying, peer pressure, or gerbil snorting. We see the kid's life, his struggles, his problems – and then the show provides a nice, simple solution to tie everything up by the end.
The point of these programs, of course, is to be so blatantly awful and painful to watch that the children wish they were back in school. That way, when they have to get up the next morning and do long division, they'll think: Well, at least I'm not at home watching that terrible after-school special.