Alcatraz versus the Knights of Crystallia (10 page)

"Ten years?" I asked.
She didn't look much older than
twenty-five to me.

"I started young," she explained, playing idly with the
mints on the table.
"I apprenticed to a master Librarian
after I'd proven my ability to use the reverse lighthouse
system."

"The what?"

"That's when you arrange a group of
books alphabeti
cally based on the third letter of the author's mother's
maiden name.
Anyway, once I got in, the Librarians let me
live the high life for a time
–
buttering
me up with
advanced reader copies of books and the occasional bagel
in the break room.
When I
was eighteen, they began intro
ducing me into the cult."

She shivered, as if remembering the horrors of those
early days.
I wasn't buying it, though.
As pleasant as she
was, I was still suspicious of her motives.

“
Ah," Folsom said, pulling something out of his pack.
"Here it is." He set a book on the table
–
one
that appeared
to have a painting of
me
on the cover.
Me riding an enor
mous vacuum cleaner while wearing a sombrero. I held a
flintlock rifle in one hand and what appeared to be a glo
w
ing, magical credit card in the other.

Alcatraz Smedry and the Mechanic's Wrench
, it read.

"Oh, dear
,”
Aunt Patty said.
"Folsom, don't tell me you
read those dreadful fantasy
n
ovels!"

"They're fun, Mother," he said. "Meaningless, really,
but as a diversion I give the genre three out of four marks.
This one here was terrible, though.
It had all the elements
of a great story
–
a
my
stical weapon, a boy on a jour
ney, quirky sidekicks. But it ended up ruining itself by
trying to say something important, rather than just being
amusing."

"That's me!" I said, pointing at the cover.

If Bastille were there, she'd have said something pithy,
such as "Glad you can recognize your own face, Smedry.
Be
careful not to wear a mustache, though.
Might confuse
yourself."

Unfortunately, Bastille wasn't there.
Once again, I found
myself annoyed, and once again, I found myself annoyed
at myself for being annoyed, which probably annoys you.
I
know it annoys my editor.

"It's a fictionalized account, of course," Folsom said
about the book.
"Most scholars know that you didn't do
any of these things.
However, you're such a pa
rt of the cul
tural unconsciousness that stories about you are quite
popular."

The cultural what
? I thought, bemused.
People were
writing books about me!
Or, at least, books with me as the
hero.
That seemed pretty darn cool, even if the facts were
sketchy.

"That's the kind of thing they think happens in the
Hushlands," Himalaya said, smiling at me, still playing idly
with the mints.
"Epic battles with the Librarians using
strange Hushlander technology.
It's all very romanticized
and exaggerated."

"Fantasy novels," Aunt
Patty said, shaking her head. “
Ah,
well.
Rot your brain if you want.
You're old enough that I
can't tell you what to do, though I'm glad you kicked that
bed-wetting habit before you moved out!"

"Thanks, Mother," Folsom said, blushing.
"That's . . .
well, that's really nice.
We should
–“
He cut off, glancing
at Himalaya.
"Um, you're doing it again."

The former Librarian froze, then looked down at the
mints in front of her.
"Oh, bother!"

"What?" I asked.

"She was classif
y
ing them," Folsom said, pointing at the
mints.
"Organizing
them by
shape, size, and... it appears,
color as well."

The mints sat in a neat little row, color coordinated and
arranged by size.
"It's just so hard to kick the habit,"
Himalaya said with frustration.
"Yesterday, I found myself
cataloging the tiles on my bathroom floor, counting the
number of each color and the number of chipped ones.
I
can't seem to stop!"

"You'll beat it eventually," Folsom said.

"I hope so," she said with a sigh.

"Well," Aunt Patty said, standing.
"I've got to get back to
the court discussion.
Folsom should be able to give you the
information you want,
Al
catraz
.”

We bid farewell, and Aunt Patty made her way from the
room
–
though
not before pointing out to the owner that
he
really
ought to do something about his bad haircut.

"What information is it you wanted?" Folsom asked.

I eyed Himalaya, trying to decide just what I wanted to
say in front of her.

"Don't worry,”
Folsom said.
"She's completely trust
worthy."

If that's the case, then why does she need a guard to
watch o
v
er her
?
I didn't b
u
y that Folsom was needed
to accustom her to life in the Free Kingdoms
–
not
after six months. U
nfortunately, there didn't seem to be
any getting around talking with her there, so I decided
to explain.
I didn't think I'd be revealing anything
t
oo
sensitive.

"My grandfather and I would like a report on Librarian
activities here in the city," I said. "I understand you're the
one to come to about that sort of thing."

"Well, I
do
have a good time keeping an eye on
Librarians
,”
Folsom said with a smile. "What do you want
to know?"

I didn't honestly know, as I was still kind of unused to
this hero stuff.
Whatever the Librarians had been up
to lately probably had something to with their current
attempt to conquer Mokia,
but I didn't know what specifi
cally to look for.

“
Anything that seems suspicious," I said, trying to sound
suave for my fans, in case any of them were eavesdropping.
(Being awesome is hard work.)

"Well, let's see," Folsom said. "This treaty mess started
about six months back, when a contingent from the Wardens
of the Standard showed
u
p in the city, claiming they wanted
to set up an embassy.
The king was suspicious, but after
years of trying hard to get the Librarians to engage in peace
talks, he couldn't really turn them down."

"Six months?" I asked.
That would be a little bit after
Grandpa Smedry left for the Hushlands to check in on me.
It was also about the length of time a frozen burrito would
stay in the freezer without turning totally nasty.
(I know
this because it's very heroic and manly. )

"That's right," Himalaya said.
"I was one of the Librarians
who came to staff the embassy.
That's how I escaped."

I actually hadn't made that connection, but I nodded, as
if that were exactly what I'd been thinking, as opposed to
comparing my manliness to a frozen food.

“Anyway,”
Folsom continued, "the Librarians announced
they were going to offer us a treaty.
Then they started going
to parties and socializing with the city's elite."

That sounded like t
he kind of information my grand
father wanted.
I wondered if I should just grab Folsom and
take him back.

But, well, Grandfather wouldn't be back to the castle for
hours yet.
Besides, I was no errand boy.
I hadn't simply
come to fetch Folsom and then sit around and wait.
Alcatraz
Smedry, brave vacuum clea
ner rider and wearer of the awe
some sombrero, didn't stand for things like that.
He was a
man of action!

"I want to meet with some of these Librarians," I found
myself saying. "Where can we find them?"

Folsom looked concerned. "Well, I guess we could head
to the embassy."

"Isn't there somewhere else we could find them?
Someplace a little more neutral?"

"There will probably be some at the prince's lunch
pa
r
ty
.”
Himalaya said.

"Yeah," Folsom said. "But how will we get into
that
?
You
have to RSVP months in advance."

I stood up, making a decision.
"Let's go. Don't worry
about getting us in
–
I'll handle that."

O
k
ay, g
o
back and reread the introductions to
chapters two, five, and six.
Don't worry, I can wait.
I'
ll
go
make some popcorn.

Pop.
Pop-pop.
Pop-pop-pop.
Pop.
POP!

What, done already?
Y
ou must not have read very care
fully.
Go back and do it again.

Munch.
Munch-munch.
Munch-munch-munch.
Munch.
Crunch.

Okay, that's better.
You should have read about:

1) Fish sticks

2) Several things you can do to fight the Librarians

3) Mental hospitals that are really churches

The connection between these three things should be
readily obvious to you:

Socrates.

Socrates was a funny little Greek man best known for
forgetting to write things down and for screaming, "Look,
I'm a philosopher!" in the middle of a No Philosophy zone.
(He was later forced to eat his words.
Along with some
poison.)

Socrates was the inventor of something very important:
the question.
That's right, before Socrates, languages had
no ability to ask questions.
Conversations went like this:

Blurg: "Gee, I wish there were a way I could speak to
Grug and see if he's feeling all right."

Grug: "By the tone of your voice, I can tell that you are
curious about my health.
Since I just dropped this rock on
my foot, I would like to request your help."

Blurg: "Alas, though our language has developed the
imperative form, we have yet to discover a method of using
the interrogative.
If only there were a simple way to ease
communication between us."

Grug: "
I
see that a Pteroydeactyl has begun to chew on
your head."

Blurg: "Yes, you are quite right. Ouch."

Fortunately, Socrates eventually came along and
invented the question, allowing people like Blurg and Grug
to speak in a way that wasn't quite so awkward.

All right, I'm lying.
Socrates didn't invent the question.
But he
did
popularize it through something we call the
Socratic method.
In additio
n, he taught people to ask ques
tions about everything.
To take nothing for granted.

Ask.
Wonder.
Think.

And that's the final thing you can do to help fight the
evil Librarians.
That, and b
u
y lots of my books.
(Or did I
mention that one already?)

"So, who's this prince that's throwing the party?" I asked
as Folsom,
Himalaya
, and I traveled by car
r
iage.

"The High King's son," Folsom said.
"Rikers Dartmoor.
Out of seven crowns, I'd giv
e him five and a half. He's lik
able and friendly, but he doesn't have his father's
brilliance."

I'd been trying for a while to figure out why Folsom
rated everything like that.
So I asked: "Why do you rate
everything all the time like that?"
(Thanks, Socrates!)

"Hum?" Folsom asked.
"Oh, well, I
am
a critic."

"You are?"

He nodded proudly.
"Head literary critic for the
Nalhallan Daily
, and a staff writer for plays as well!"

I should have known.
Like I said, all of the Smedrys
seemed to be involved in one academic field or another.
This was the worst yet. I looked away, suddenly feeling
self-conscious.

"
S
hattering Glass!" Folsom said.
"Why do people always
get like that when they find out?"

"Get like what?" I asked, trying to act like I wasn't trying
to act like anything at all.

"Everyone grows worried when they're around a critic,"
Folsom complained.
"Don't they understand that we can't
properly evaluate them if they're not acting normal?"

"Evaluate?" I squeaked.
"You're evaluating me?"

"Well, sure
,"
Folsom said.
"Everybody evaluates.
We crit
ics are just trained to talk about it."

That didn't help.
In fact, that made me even more
uncomfortable.
I glanced down at the copy of Alcatraz
Smedry and the Mech
a
nic's Wrench.
Was Folsom judging
how much I acted like the hero in the book?

"Oh, don't let that thing annoy you," Himalaya said.
She
was sitting next to me on the seat, uncomfortably close,
considering how little I trusted her.
Her voice sounded so
friendly. Was that a trick?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The book," she said, pointing.
"I know it's probably
bothering you how trite and ridiculous it is."

I looked down at the cover again.
"Oh, I don't know, it's
not
that
bad. . . ."

"Alcatraz, yo
u’
re riding a
vacuum cleane
r
.”

“
And a noble steed he was.
Or, er, well, he appears to be
one. . . ."
Somewhere deep
–
hidden
far within me, next to
the nachos I'd had for dinner a few weeks back
–
a
piece
of me acknowledged that she was right.
The story did seem
rather silly.

"It's a good thing that copy is Folsom
’s
,” Himalaya con
tinued.
"Otherwise we'd have to listen to that dreadful
theme music every time you opened the book.
Folsom
removes the music plate before he reads the books."

"Why'
d
he do that?" I asked, disappointed.
I have theme
music?

"Ah," Folsom said. "Here we are!"

I looked up as the carriage pulled to a halt outside a
very tall, red-colored castle.
It had a wide green lawn (the
type that was randomly adorned with statues of people
who were missing body parts) and numerous carriages
parked in front.
Our driver brought us right up to the front
gates, where several men in white uniforms stood about
looking very butler-y.

One stepped up to our carriage. "Invitation?" he asked.

"We don't have one," Folsom said, blushing.

'Ah, well, then," the butler said, pointing.
"You can pull
around t
hat direction to leave, then –“

"We don't need an invita
tion," I said, gathering my con
fidence.
"I'm Al
catraz Smedry."

The butler gave me a droll glance.
"I'm sure you are.
Now, you go that way to leave –“

"No," I said, standing up.
"Really, I'm him.
Look." I held
up the book cover.

"You forgot your sombrero," the butler said flatly.

"But it does look like me."

"I'll admit that you are a good look-alike, but I
hardly
think that a mythical legend has suddenly appeared just so
that he can go to a lunch party.”

I blinked.
It was the first time in my life someone had
refused to believe that I was me.

"
S
urely you recognize me
,”
Folsom said, stepping up
beside me.
"Folsom Smedry."

"The critic," the butler said.

"Er, yes," Folsom replied.

"The one who panned His Highness's latest book."

"
J
ust . . . well, trying to offer some constructive advice,"
Folsom said, blushing again.

"You should
be ashamed of trying to use an Al
catraz
imposter to insult His Highness at his own party. Now, if
you'll just pull along in that direction . . ."

This was getting annoying.
So I did the first thing that
came to mind.
I broke the butler's clothing.

It wasn't that hard.
My T
a
lent is very powerful, if a
lit
tle tough to control.
I simply reached out and touched
the butler's sleeve, then sent a burst of breaking power
into his shirt. Once, this would have simply made it
fall off
–
but
I was learning to control my abilities.
So,
first I made the white uniform turn pink,
then
I made it
fall off.

The butler stood in his underwear, pointing into the
distance with a naked arm, pink clothing around his feet.
"Oh," he finally said.
"Welcome, then, Lord Smedry.
Let me
lead you to the party."

"Thank you,”
I replied, hopping down from the
carriage.

"That was easy," Himalaya said, joining Folsom and me.
The butler led the way, still wearing only his underwear, but
walking in a dignified manner regardless.

"The breaking Ta
lent," Folsom said, smiling.
"I forgot
about it!
It's extremely rare, and there's only one person
alive
–
mythical
legend or not
–
who
has it.
Al
catraz, that
was a five out of five point five maneuver."

"Thanks
,”
I said.
"But what book of the prince's did you
give such a bad review to?"

"Er, well," Folsom said. "Did you ever look at the
author
of the book you're carrying?"

I glanced down with surprise. The fantasy novel bore a
name on the front that
–
in
the delight of looking at my
own name
–
I'd completely missed.
Rikers Dartmoor.

"The prince is a
novelist
?" I asked.

"His father was terribly disappointed to hear about the
hobby," Folsom said.
"You know what terrible people
authors tend to be."

"They're mostly social miscreants," Himalaya agreed.

"Fortunately, the prince has mostly avoided the worst
habits of authors," Folsom said.
"Probably because writing
is only a hobby for him.
Anyway, he's fascinated with the
Hushlands and with mythological things like motorcycles
and eggbeaters."

Great
,
I thought as we
walked through the castle door
way.
The corridors inside held framed classic-era movie
posters from the Hushlands.
Cowboys,
Gone with the Wind
,
B movies with slime monsters.
I began to understand where
the prince got his strange ideas about life in the United
States.

We entered a large ballroom.
It was filled with people in
fancy clothing, holding drinks and chatting.
A group of
musicians played music b
y rubbing their fingers on crys
tal cups.

"Uh-oh
,”
Himalaya said, grabbing Folsom as he started
to jerk erratically.
Himalaya pulled him out of the room.

"What?" I asked, turning with shock, prepared for an
attack.

"It's nothing," she said, stuffing cotton balls into
Folsom's ears.
I didn't have time to comment on the strange
behavior as the mostly naked butler cleared his throat.
He
pointed at me and proclaimed with a loud voice, "Lord
Al
catraz Smedry and guests."
Then he turned around and
walked away.

I stood awkwardly at the doorwa
y
suddenly aware of
my bland clothing: T-shirt and jeans, with a green jacket.
The people before me didn't seem to be dressed in any one
style
–
some
were wearing medieval gowns or hose, others
had what looked to be antiquated vests and suits.
All were
better dressed than I was.