Alcatraz versus the Knights of Crystallia (7 page)

"Leavenworth
S
medry
!" a vivacious feminine voice
sq
uealed.
"You rascal!
You're back!"

The en
tire room seemed to turn as one,
looking at a
f
u
ll-figured (remember what that means?) woman who
leaped from her chair and barreled toward my grandfather.
S
he had short blond hair and an excited expression.

I believe that's the first time I ever saw a hint of fear in
m
y grandfather's eyes.
The woman proceeded to grab the
diminutive Oculator in a hug.
Then she saw me.

"Is this
Al
atraz?" she demanded.
"
S
hattering Glass, boy,
does your mouth always hang open like that?"

I shut my mouth.

"Lad
,”
Grandpa
S
medry said as the woman finally
released him.
"This is your aunt,
P
attywagon
S
medry.
My
daughter, Quentin's mother."

"Excuse me," a voice called from the floor below.
I
blushed, realizing that the monarchs were watching us.
"L
ady
Smedry," King Dartmoor said in a booming voice,
"is it
requisite
that you disrupt these proceedings?"

"Sorry, Your Majesty," she called down.
"But these fel
lows are a lot more exciting than you are!"

Grandpa Smedry sighed, then whispered to me, "Do
you want
to take a guess at her Smedry Ta
lent?"

"Causing disruptions?" I whispered back.

"Close," Grandpa Smedr
y said. "She can say inappropri
ate things at awkward moments."

That seemed to fit.

"Oh, don't give me that look
,”
she said
, wagging her fin
ger at the king.
"You can't tell me you're not excited to see
them back too."

The king sighed.
"We will take a recess of one hour for
family reunions.
Lord Smedry, did you return with your
long-lost grandson, as reports indicated you might?"

"Indeed I did!" Grandpa Smedry proclaimed.
"Not only
that but we also brought a pair of the fabled Translator's
Lenses, smelted from the Sands of Rashid themselves!"

This prompted a reaction in the crowd, and murmuring
began immediately.
One small contingent of men and
women sitting directly across from us did not seem pleased
to see Grandpa Smedry.
Instead of tunics or robes, the
m
embers of this group wore suits
–
the
men with bow
ties, the women with shawls. Many wore glasses, which had
h
orned rims.

Librarians.

The room grew chaotic as the audience members began
to stand, producing an excited buzz,
almost like a thousand
hornets had suddenly been released.
My aunt
P
atty began
to speak animatedly with her father, demanding the details
of his time in the Hushlands.
Her voice managed to carry
out over the noise of the crowd, though she didn't appear
to be yelling. That's just how she was.

"Alcatraz?"

I glanced to the side, where Bastille stood shuffling
uncomfortably.
"Yeah?" I said.

"This . . . might be an appropriate p
l
ace to mention
something."

"Wait," I said, growing nervous.
"Look, the king
’s com
ing up this way!"

"
O
f course he is," Bastille said.
"He wants to see his
family."

"Of course.
He wants to . . . Wait,
what
?”

At that moment, King Dartmoor stepped up to us.
Grandpa Smedry and the others bowed to him
–
even
Patty
–
so
I did the same.
Then the king kissed Draulin.
That's right.
He kissed her.
I watched with shock, and
not just because I'd never imagined that anyone would
want to kiss Draulin.
(Seemed a little like kissing an
alligator.)

And if Draulin was the king's wife, that meant . . .

"You're a princess!" I said, pointing an accusing finger at
Bastille.

She grimaced. "Yeah, kind of."

"How can you
'kind of'
be a princess?"

"Well, I can't inherit the throne," she said.
"I renounced
claim on it when I joined the Knights of Crystallia.
Vow of
poverty and all that."

The crowd milled
about us, some exiting the room,
others stopping
–
oddly
–
to
gawk at my grandfather
and me.

I should have rea
liz
ed that Bastille was royalty.
Prison
names.
She has one, but her mother doesn't.
That was an
easy indication that her father's family was of an important
breed.
Besides, stories such as this one
always
have at least
one hidden member of royalty among the core cast.
It's,
like, some kind of union mandate or something.

I had several options at this point.
Fortunately, I chose
the one that didn't make me look like a total dork.

"That's
a
wesome
!" I exclaimed.

Bastille blinked. "You're not mad at me for hiding it?"

I shrugged.
"Bastille, I'm some kind of freaky noble
thing myself.
Why should it matter if you are too?
Besides,
it's not like you were lying or anything.
You just don't like
to talk about yourself."

Brace yourselves.
Something very, very strange is about
to happen.
Stranger than talking dinosaurs.
Stranger than
glass birds.
Stranger, even, than my analogies to fish sticks.

Bastille got teary eyed.
Then she hugged me.

Girls, might I make a suggestion at this point?
Don't go
around hugging people without warning.
To many of us (a
number somewhere near half), this is akin to pouring an
entire bottle of seventeen-alarm hot sauce in our mouths.

I believe that at this point in the story, I made several
very interesting and incoherent noises, followed
–
perhaps
–
by
a blank expression and then some
numb-faced drooling.

S
omeone was talking.
".
. . I cannot interfere with the
rules of Crystallia, Bastille."

I fuzzed back into consciousness.
Bastille had released
me from her unprovoked, unregistered h
u
g and moved on
to speak with her father.
The room had cleared out consid
erably, though there was still a number of people standing
at the perimeter of the room, curiously watching our little
group.

"I know, Father," Bastille said.
"I must face their repri
mand, as is my duty to the order."

"That's my girl," the king said, laying a hand on her
shoulder.
"But don't take what they say
too
harshly. The
world is far less intense a place than the knights sometimes
make it out to be."

Draulin raised her eyebrow at this.
Looking at
them
–
the
king in his blue-and-gold
r
obes, Draulin
in her silvery armor
–
they
actually seemed to fit
together.

I still felt sorry for Bastille.
No wonder she's so uptight
,
l
thought.
Royalty on one side,
hard-line
knig
h
t on the other
.
That would be like trying to grow up pressed between two
boulders.

"Brig," Grandpa Smedry said.
"We need to speak about
what the Council is planning to do."

The king turned.
"You're too late, I'm afraid,
Le
avenworth.
Our minds are all but made up.
You'll have
your vote, but I doubt it will make a difference."

"How could you even consider giving up Mokia?"
G
randpa Smedry asked.

"To save lives, my friend."
The king spoke the words in a
wearied voice, and I could almost see the burdens he was
carrying.
"It is not a pleasant choice to make, but if it stops
the
war..."

"You can't honestly expect them to keep their promises.
H
ighlighting Heinleins, man!
This is insanity."

The king shook his head.
"I will not be the king who
was offered peace and who passed it by, Leavenworth.
I will
not be a warmonger.
If
there is a chance at reconcilia
tion . . .
But we should speak of this someplace outside the
public eye.
Let us retire to my sitting room."

My grandfather nodded curtly, then stepped to the side
and waved me over.
"What do you think?" he asked quietly
as I approached.

I shrugged. "He seems sincere."

"Brig is nothing if no
t sincere," Grandpa Smedry whis
pered.
"He is a passionate man; those Librarians must have
done some clever talking to bring him to this point.
Still,
he's not the only vote on the Council."

"But he's the king, isn't he?"

"He's the High King," Grandpa Smedry said, raising a
finger.
"He is our foremost leader
but Nalhalla isn't the
only kingdom in our coalition.
There are thirteen kings,
queens, and dignitaries like myself who sit on that Council.

If we can persuade enough of them to vote against this
treaty, then we might be able to kill it."

I nodded. "What can I do to help?"
Mokia couldn't fall.
I
would see that it didn't.

"I'll speak with Brig," Grandpa Smedry said.
"You go see
if you can track down your cousin Folsom.
I put him in
charge of Smedry affairs here in Nalhalla.
He might have
some i
nsight about this whole mess."

"Okay."

Grandpa Smedry fished in one of the pockets of his
tuxedo jacket.
"Here, you might want this back."
He held
out a single Lens with no coloring or tint to it.
It glowed
radiantly to my Oculator's eyes, more powerfully than any
I'd ever seen except for the Translator's Lenses.

I'd almost forgotten about it. I'd discovered the Lens in
t
h
e Library of Alexandr
i
a at the tomb of
Al
catraz the First,
but hadn't been able to determine what it did.
I'd given it
over to my grandfather for inspection.

"Did you figure out what it does?" I asked, taking it
f
rom him.

He nodded eagerly.
"There were lots of tests I had to do.
I meant to tell you yesterday but, well . . ."

"You're late."

"Exactly!" Grandpa Smedry said.
“
Anyway, this is a very
useful Lens.
Useful indeed.
Almost mythical.
Couldn't
b
elieve it myself, had to test the thing three times before I
was convinced."

I grew excited, imagin
ing the Lens summoning the spir
its of the dead to fight at my side. Or, instead, perhaps it
w
ould make people explode in a wave of red smoke if I
focused it on them.
Red smoke rocks.

"So what does it do?"

"It allows you to see when someone is telling the
truth."

That wasn't exactly what I'd been expecting.

"Yes," Grandpa Smedry said.
“
A Truthfinder's Lens.
I
never thought I'd hold one myself. Quite remarkable!"