Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (8 page)

Neat
, I thought.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said.

She wiped her brow. “What?”

“That jet that was chasing us,” I said. “It fired a Frostbringer’s Lens. I thought only Oculators could activate things like that.”

She shrugged.

“Bastille,” I said, eyeing her.

“You saw my mother,” she grumbled. “I’m not supposed to talk about things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not an Oculator.”

“I’m not a pigeon either,” I said. “But I can talk about feathers if I want.”

She eyed me. “That’s a really bad metaphor, Smedry.”

“I’m good at those kind.”

Feathers. Much less comfortable than scales. Glad I’m a fish instead of a bird. (You haven’t forgotten about that, have you?)

“Look,” I said. “What you know could be important. I… I think the thing that flew that jet is still alive.”

“It fell from the sky!” she said.

“So did we.”

“It didn’t have a dragon to glide on.”

“No, but it did have a face half-made from metal screws and springs.”

She froze, bottle halfway to her lips.

“Ha!” I said. “You
do
know something.”

“Metal face,” she said. “Was it wearing a mask?”

I shook my head. “The face was
made
out of bit of metal. I saw the creature before, on the airfield. When I ran away, I felt… pulled backward. It was hard to move.”

“Voidstormer’s Lenses,” she said absently. “The opposite of those Windstormer’s Lenses you have.”

I patted the Windstormer’s Lenses in my pocket. I’d almost forgotten about those. With my last Firebringer’s Lens now broken, the Windstormer’s Lenses were my only real offensive Lenses. Besides them, I only had my Oculator’s Lenses
, my Courier’s Lenses, and – of course – my Translator’s Lenses.

“So, what has a metal face, flies jets, and can use Lenses?” I asked. “Sounds like a riddle.”

“An easy one,” Bastille said, kneeling down, speaking quietly. “Look, don’t tell my mother you got this from me, but I think we’re in serious trouble.”

“When are we not?”

“More so now,” she said. “You remember that Oculator you fought in the Library?”

“Blackburn? Sure.”

“Well,” she said, “he belonged to a sect of Librarians known as the Dark Oculators. There are other sects, though – four, I think – and they don’t get along very well. Each sect wants to be in charge of the whole organization.”

“And this guy chasing me…?”

“One of the Scrivener’s Bones,” she said. “It’s the smallest sect. Other Librarians tend to avoid the Scrivener’s Bones, except when they need them, because they have… odd habits.”

“Like?”

“Like ripping off parts of their bodies, the
n
replacing them with Alivened materials.”

I stared at her for a moment. We fish do that sometimes. We can’t blink, after all. “They do
what
?”

“Just what I said,” Bastille whispered. “They’re part Alivened. Twisted half human, half monsters.”

I shivered. We’d fought a couple of Alivened in the downtown library. Those were made of paper, but they’d been far more dangerous than that could possibly sound. It was fighting them that lost Bastille her sword.

Alivening things – bringing inanimate objects to life with Oculatory power – is a very evil art. It requires the Oculator to give up some of his or her own humanity.

“The Scrivener’s Bones usually work on commission,” Bastille said. “So, another Librarian hired it.”

My mother
, was my immediate thought.
She’s the one who hired him.
I avoided thinking about her, since doing so tended to make me sick, and there’s no use being sick unless you can get out of school for it.

“He used Lenses,” I said. “So this Scrivener’s Bone is an Oculator?”

“Not likely,” Bastille said.

“Then how?”

“There’s a way to make a Lens that anyone can use,” she whispered very quietly.

“There is?” I asked. “Well, why in the world don’t we have more of
those
?”

Bastille glanced to the side. “Because, idiot,” she hissed. “You have to sacrifice an Oculator and use his blood to forge one.”

“Oh,” I said.

“He was probably using a blood-forged Lens,” she said, “hooked somehow into the cockpit glass so that it could fire out at us. That sounds like something the Scrivener’s Bones would do. They like mixing Oculatory powers with Hushlander technology.”

This talk of blood-forged Lenses should mean something to you. Finally, you may understand why I end up finding my way to an altar, about to get sacrificed. What Bastille neglected to mention was that the power of the Oculator who was killed
had
a direct effect on how powerful the blood-forged Lens was. The more powerful the Oculator, the more awesome the Lens.

And I, as you might have realized, was very, very powerful.

Bastille left to cut down more branches. I sat quietly. It was probably just in my head, but I thought I could feel something off in the distance. That same dark sense I’d felt escaping from the airfield and fighting the jet.

That’s silly
, I told myself, shivering.
We’ve traveled hundreds of miles using Kaz’s Talent. Even if that Scrivener’s Bone did survive, it would take in days to get here.

So I assumed.

A short time later I lay beneath a canopy of fronds, my black sneakers off and wrapped in my jacket to form a pillow. The others dozed, and I tried to do likewise. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d been told.

It seemed like it all must be related somehow. The way the Lenses worked. Smedry Talents. The fact that the blood of an Oculator could make a Lens that worked for anyone. The connection between silimatic energy and Oculatory energy.

All connected.
But, it was too much for me to figure out, considering the fact that I was just a fish. So, I went to sleep.

Which is pretty hard to do when you don’t have eyelids.

All right, so I’m not a fish. I admit it. What? Figured that out on your own, did you? You’re so clever. What gave it away? The fact that I’m writing books, the fact that I don’t have fins, or the fact that I’m a downright, despicable liar?

Anyway, there
was
a purpose in that little exercise – one beyond my standard purpose. (Which is, of course, to annoy you.) I wanted to prove something. In the last chapter, I told you that I was a fish – but I also mentioned that I had black sneakers. Do you remember?

Here’s the thing. That was a lie; I didn’t have black sneakers. I have never owned a pair of black shoes. I was wearing white shoes; I told you about them back in Chapter One.

Why does it matter? Let’s talk about something called misdirection. In the last chapter, I told a big lie, then made you focus on it so much that you ignored the smaller lie. I said I was a fish. Then, I mentioned my black shoes in passing, so you didn’t pay attention to them.

People use this strategy all the time. They drive fancy cars to distract others from their having a small house. They wear bright clothing to distract from their being – unfortunately – rather bland people. They talk really loudly to distract you from their having nothing to say.

This is what has happened to me. Everywhere I go in the Free Kingdoms, people are always excited to congratulate me, praise me, or ask for my blessing. They’re all looking at the fish. There are so focused on the big thing – that I supposedly saved the world from the Librarians – that they completely ignore the facts. They don’t see who I am, or what my presumed heroism cost.

So, that’s why I’m writing my autobiography.
I want to teach you to ignore the fish and pay attention to the shoes. Fish and shoes. Remember that.

“Alcatraz!” a voice called, waking me up.
I opened bleary eyes, then sat up.

I’d been dreaming. About a wolf. A metal wolf, running, charging, getting closer.

He’s coming
, I thought
. The hunter. The Scrive
n
e
r
’s Bone. He’s not dead
.

“Alcatraz!” I looked toward the sound and was met by a stu
nn
ing sight. My grandfather was standing just a short distance away.

“Grandpa Smedry!” I said, climbing to my fee
t
. Indeed, it was the old man, with his bushy white mustache and tuft of white hair running around the back of his head.

“Grandpa!” I said, rushing forward. “Where have you been?!”

Grandpa Smedry looked confused, then glanced over his shoulder. He cocked his head at me. “What?”

I slowed. Why was he wearing Tracker’s Lenses instead of his Oculator’s Lenses? In fact, looking more closely, I saw that he had on some very odd clothing. A pink tunic and brown trousers.

“Alcatraz?” Grandpa Smedry asked. “What are you talking about?” His voice was far too feminine. In fac
t it sounded just like…

“Australia?” I asked, stupefied.

“Oops!” he/she suddenly said, eyes opening wide. The doppelganger scrambled over to the pack and pulled out a mirror, then groaned and sat down. “Oh, Shattering Glass!”

Back under the tent, Kaz was waking up, blinking. He sat up, then began to chuckle.

“What?” I asked, looking back at him.

“My Talent,” Australia said, sounding morose. “I warned you, didn’t I? Sometimes, I look
really
ugly when I wake up.”

“What are you saying about my grandfather?” I said, growing amused.

Australia – still looking like Grandpa – blushed. “I’m sorry,” She said. “I didn’t mean to say
he
was ugly. Just, well, this is ugly for me.”

I held up a hand. “I understand.

“It’s worse when I fall asleep thinking about someone,” she said. “I was worried about him, and I guess the Talent took over. It should begin to wear off in a little bit.”

I smiled, then found myself laughing at Australia’s expression. I’d seen several very strange Talents in my short time with the Smedries, but until that moment, I had never run into one that I thought was more embarrassing tha
n
my own.

I would like to point out that it’s not very kind to take amusement in someone else’s pain. Doing so is a very bad habit – almost as bad as reading the second book in a series without having read the first.

However, it’s quite different when your female cousin goes to sleep, then wakes up looking like an old man with a bushy mustache. Then it’s okay to make fun of her. That happens to be one of the very few exclusions covered by the Law of Things That Are So Funny You Can’t Be Blamed for Laughing at Them, No Matter What.

(Other exceptions include getting bitten by a giant penguin, falling off a giant cheese sculpture carved to look like a nose, and getting named after a prison by your parents. I have a petition in the courts to revoke that third one.)

Kaz joined me in the laughter, and eventually, even Australia was chuckling. That’s the way we Smedries are. If you can’t laugh at your Talent, you tend to end up very grumpy.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked Australia.

“Huh?” she asked, poking at her mustache with her finger.

“You woke me up.”

Australia looked up, shocked. “Oh! Right! Um, I think I found something interesting!”

I raised an eyebrow, and she stood, rushing over to the other side of the Library’s hut. She pointed at the ground. “See!” she said.

“Dirt?” I asked.

“No, no, the footprints!”

There were no footprints in the dirt – or course, Australia was wearing the Tracker’s Lenses. I reached up and tapped her Lenses.

“Oh, right!” she said, pulling off the Lenses and handing them to me.

In all fairness, you shouldn’t judge Australia too harshly. She’s not stupid. She just gets distracted. By, you know, breathing.

I slipped on the Lenses. There, burning on
the ground, were a set of fiery white footprints. I recognized them immediately – each person leaves distinctive prints.

These belonged to my grandfather, Leavenworth Smedry. Australia herself trailed a set of puffy pink prints. Kaz’s were the blue footprints, mixing with my own whitish ones, glowing in front of the hut where we’d inspected the day before. I could also see Bastille’s red ones that crossing the area several times, and since I hadn’t known Draulin very long – and she wasn’t related to me – there were only a few of her gray ones, as they disappeared rather quickly.

“See?” Australia asked again, nodding quickly. As she did so, her mustache began to fall free. “None of us gives off prints like those – though yours are close.”

Kaz had joined us. “They belong to your father,” I said to him.

He nodded. “Where do they lead?”

I began to walk, following the prints. Kaz and Australia followed as I made my way around the outside of the hut. Grandpa had inspected the place, just like we had. I peeked inside and noted that the prints led to one corner of the hut, then turned and walked down the stairs into the darkness.

“He went in,” I said.

Kaz sighed. “So they’re both down there.”

I nodded. “Although, my father must have come this way too long ago for his prints to have remained. We should have thought of using the Tracker’s Lenses earlier! I feel like an idiot.”

Kaz shrugged. “We’ve found the prints. That’s what’s important.”

“So, I did something good, right?” Australia asked.

I glanced at her. Her head had begun to sprout her normal dark hair, and her face looked like some kind of hybrid between hers and Grandpa Smedry’s. While seeing her before had been amusing, now she was downright creepy.

“Um, yeah,” I said. “You did a great job. I can follow these prints, and we’ll find my grandfather. Then, at least, we’ll know where
one
of them is.”

Australia nodded. Even between the times I’d glanced at her
, she’d grown to look more like herself, though she seemed sad.

What?
I thought.
She made a great discovery. Without her, we wouldn’t have…

Australia had made the discovery because she’d had the Tracker’s Lenses. Now I’d taken them back and was ready to charge off after Grandfather. I took off the Tracker’s Lenses. “Why don’t you keep these, Australia?”

“Really?” she said, perking up.

“Sure,” I said. “You can lead us to Grandpa Smedry just as well as I can.”

She smiled eagerly, taking them back. “Thank you so much!” She rushed outside, following the prints back the way they had come, apparently to see if Grandpa Smedry had visited any other places.

Kaz regarded me. “I may have misjudged you, kid.”

I shrugged. “She hasn’t had much luck being an Oculator. I figured I shouldn’t take away the only pair of Lenses that she’s been able to use effectively.”

Kaz smiled, nodding in approval. “You’ve got a good heart. A Smedry heart. Of course, not as good as a
short person’s
heart, but that’s to be expected.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Reason number one hundred and twenty-seven. Short people have smaller bodies, but regular-size hearts. That gives us a larger ratio of heart to flesh – making us, of course, far more compassionate than big people.” He winked, then sauntered out of the room.

I shook my head, moving to follow, then stopped. I glanced at the corner, where the footprints had lead, then walked over and fished around in the dirt.

There, covered by small leaves and placed in a little hollow in the ground, was a small velvet pouch. I pulled it open and to my surprise found a pair of
Lenses inside, along with the note.

Alcatraz!
It read.