Read Alcatraz versus the Knights of Crystallia Online
Authors: Brandon Sanderson
Alcatraz versus the Knights of Crystallia (21 page)
"Great," I said.
"
J
ust great.
Thanks
anyway
."
I sighed,
stepping away from the door, which the knights closed behind me. I grabbed a lamp off the wall.
"Well, let's go
investigate,” I said to the others. “See if we can find any
thing suspicious."
W
e wandered the room, and I tried not to let my
annoyance get the better of me.
The Librarians had done
some horrible things to the Free Kingdoms; it made sense
that the Nalhallans would have an irrational fear of
Librarian ways.
However, I found it amazing
that a people
who loved learning so much could treat books in such a
horrible manner.
From the way the tomes were strewn, it
seemed to me that their method of
“
archiving
”
books
was to toss them into the storage chamber and forget
about them.
The piles grew larger and more mountainous near the
back of the chamber, as if they'd been systematically pushed
there by some infernal, literacy-hating bulldozer.
I stopped,
hands on my hips.
I had expected a museum, or at least a
den filled with bookshelves.
Instead, I'd gotten a teenage
boy's bedroom.
"How could they tell if anything was missing?" I asked.
"They can't," Sing said.
"They figure if nobody can get
in to steal books, then they don't have to keep them counted
or organized."
"That's stupid," I said, holding up my light.
The cham
ber was longer than it was wide, so I could see the walls on
either side of me.
The place wasn't infinite, like the Library
of Alexandria had seemed.
It was essentially just one very
big room filled with thousands and thousands of books.
I walked back down the pathway between the mounds.
How could you tell if anything was suspicious about a place
you'd never visited before?
I was about to give up when I
heard it.
A sound.
"I don't know,
Alcatraz,” Sing was saying. "Maybe we –“
I held up a hand, quieting him.
"Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
I closed my eyes, listening.
Had I imagined it?
"
O
ver there," Bastille said.
I opened
m
y eyes to find
her pointing toward one of the walls.
"
S
craping
sounds,
l
ike
..."
"Like digging," I said, scrambling over a stack of books.
I climbed
u
p the pile, slip
ping on what appeared to be sev
eral volumes of the royal tax code, until I reached the top
and could touch the wall.
It was, of course, made of glass.
I
pressed an ear against it.
"Yeah," I said. "There ar
e
definitely
digging sounds com
ing from the other side.
My mother didn't sneak in
here,
she snuck into a nearby building!
They're tunneling into
the Royal Archives!"
"Not
–“
Sing began.
"Yes," I said, "it's
not
a
library
.
I get it.”
“
Actually," he said, "I was going to say
'Not to disagree,
Al
catraz, but it's impossible to break into this place."'
"What?" I said, sliding back down the pile of
books.
"Why?"
"Because it's built out of Enforcer's Glass," Bastille said.
She was l
ooking better, but still somewh
at dazed.
"You can't
break that, not even with Smedry T
a
lents."
I looked back at the wall.
"I've seen impossible things
happen.
My mother has T
r
ans
lator's Lenses; there's no tell
ing what she's learned from the Forgotten Language so far.
Ma
yb
e
they know a way to get through that glass."
"Possible," Sing said, scratching his chin.
"Though, to be
honest, if I were them, I'd just tunnel into the stairwell out
there, then come through the door."
I glanced at the wall.
That did seem likely.
"Come on," I
said, rushing over and pulling open the door.
The two
knights outside glanced in.
"Yes, Lord Smedry?" one asked.
"
S
omeone may be trying to dig into the stairwell," I said.
"Librarians.
Get some more troops down here."
The knights looked surprised, but they obeyed my
orders, one rushing up the stairs to do as commanded.
I looked back at Bastille and Sing, who still stood in the
room.
Soldiers weren't going to be enough
–
I
wasn't just
going to sit and wait to see what plot the Librarians
were going to be putting into effect.
Mokia was in trouble,
and
I
had to help.
That meant blocking what my mother
and the others were doing, perhaps even exposing their
double-dealing to the monarchs.
"
W
e need to figure out what it is in here that my mother
wants," I said, "then take it first."
Bastille and Sing looked at each other, then glanced back
at the ridiculous number of books.
I could read their
thoughts in their expressions.
Find the thing my mother wanted?
O
ut of this mess?
How could anyone find
anything
in here?
It was then that I said something I never thought I'd
hear myself say, no matter how old I grew.
"We need a Librarian," I declared.
"Fast.
Yes
,
you
hea
r
d that right.
I
–
Alcatraz
S
medry
–
needed
a Librarian.
Now, you may have gotten the impression that there are
absolutely no uses for Librarians.
I'm sorry if I implied that.
Librarians are
v
ery
useful.
For instance,
they are useful if
you are fishing for sharks and need some bait.
They're also
useful for throwing out win
dows to test the effects of con
crete impact on horn-rimmed glasses.
If you have enough
Librarians, you can build bridges out of them.
(Just like
witches.)
And, unfortunately, they ar
e
also
useful for organizing
things.
I hurried
u
p the stairs with Sing and Bastille.
We had to
push our way past the soldiers who now lined the steps; the
men and women held their swords, looking concerned.
I'd
sent a soldier with a message for my grandfather and
another for my father, warning them of what we’d discovered. I’d also ordered one of the knights to send a contingent to search nearby buildings – maybe they’d be able to find the librarian base and the other end of the tunnel. I wasn’t counting on that happening, though. My mother wouldn’t be caught so easily.
“We need to go
fast
,” I said. There’s no telling when my mother will break into that chamber.”
I still felt a little bit sick for needing the help of a Librarian. It was frustrating. Terribly frustrating. In fact, I don’t think I can accurately – through text – show you just
how
frustrating it was.
But because I love you, I’m going to try anyway. Let’s start by randomly capitalizing letters.
“We cAn send fOr a draGOn to cArry us,” SinG said As we burst oUt oF the stairwell and rushed tHrough ThE room aBove.
“ThAT wILl take tOO Long,” BaStiLlE saiD.
“We’Ll have To grab a VeHiCle oFf thE STrEet,” I sAid.
(You know what, that’s not nearly frustrating enough. I’m going to have to start adding in random punctuation marks too.)
We c!RoS-Sed thrOu?gH t%he Gra##ND e’nt
iCATiON ha,pPenEd. We nEeDeD!! To bE QuicK?.?
UnFOrTu()nAtelY, tHE!re were no C?arriA-ges on tHe rOa^D for U/s to cOmMan>
(Okay, you know what? That’s not frustrating enough either. Let’s start replacing some random vowels with the letter Q.)
I lqOk-eD abO!qT, dE#sPqrA#te, fRq?sTr\
Ated (like you, hopefully), anD aNn\qYeD. Jq!St eaR&lIer, tHqr^E hq.d BeeN DoZen!S of cq?RriqgEs on The rQA!d! No-W tHqRe wA=Sn’t a SqnGl+e oN^q.
“ThE_rQ!” I eXclai$mqd, pointing. Mqv=Ing do~Wn th_e RqoD! A short diStq++nCe aWay
(Okay, you know how frustrated you are trying to read
that?
W
ell, that's about
half
as frustrated as I was at having
to go get a Librarian to help me.
Aren't you happy I let you
experience what I was feeling?
That's the sign of excellent
storytelling: writing that makes the reader have the same
emotions as the characters.
You can thank me later.)
W
e rushed up to the thing walking down the road.
It
was a glass animal of some sort, a little like the
Hawkwind
or the
Dragona
u
t
, except instead of flying, it was walking.
As we rounded it, I got a better view.
I froze in place on the street. "A pig?"
S
ing shrugged.
Bastille, however, rushed toward the
pig in a determined run.
S
he looked less dazed,
though she
still had a
very
. . . worn-out cast to her.
Her eyes were dark
and puf
f
y, her face haggard and exhausted.
I jogged after
her.
As we approached the enormous pig, a section of glass
on its backside slid away, revealing someone standing
inside.
I feel the need to pause and explain that I don't approve
of potty humor in the least.
There has already been far too
much of it in this book, and - trifecta or n
ot
- it's just
not appropriate.
Potty humor is the literary equivalent of
potato chips and soda.
Appealing, perhaps, but at the same
time, dreadful and in poor taste.
I will have you know that
I don't stand for such things and
–
as
in the previous vol
umes of my narrative
–
intend
to hold this story to
rigorous quality standards.
"Farting barf-faced poop!" a voice exclaimed from
inside the pig's butt.
(Sigh.
Sorry.
At least that's another great paragraph to
try working into a random conversation.)
The man standing in the pig's posterior was none other
than Prince Rikers Dartmoor, Bastille's brother, son of the
king. He still wore his royal blue robes, his red baseball cap
topping a head of red hair.
"Excuse me?" I said, stopping short outside the pig.
"What was that you said, Your Highness?"
"I hear that Hushlanders
like to use synonyms for excre
ment as curses!" the prince said.
"I was trying to make you
feel at home,
Al
catraz!
What in the world are you doing in
the middle of the street?"
"We need a ride, Rikers," Bastille said. "
Fast
."
"Explosive diarrhea!" the prince exclaimed.
“
And for the last time,
stop
trying to talk like a
Hushlander.
It makes you sound like an idiot."
She jumped
up into the pig, then extended a hand to help me up.
I smiled, taking her hand.