Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (23 page)

"
Alcatraz
," Bast
ille hissed. "What's going on?”

"That's the Forgotten Language," I said, pointing to the
scribbles.

"What?"

To her eyes, the scribbles would be almost invisible
–
only
the Discerner's Lenses had let me see them so starkly.

"Look closer," I said.

Eventually, she nodded. "
O
kay, so I think I see some
lines up there. What of it?"

"They're new," I said.
"
W
ritten within the last few
days.
So, if that really is the
Forgotten Language, then
only someone wearing T
r
an
slator's Lenses could have writ
ten it."

Finally, she seemed to understand.
“
And that means . . ."

"My father was here."
I looked back up at the marks.
“
And I can't read the message he left for me because I gave
my Lenses away."

Our group fell silent.

My father has Lenses that let him glimpse the future.
C
ould he have left me a message to help me fight Kiliman
?

I felt frustrated.
There was no way to read the inscription.
If my father had seen into the future, wouldn't he have
realized I wouldn't have my Lenses?

No - Grandpa Smedry had said that Oracle's Lenses
were very unreliable and gave inconsistent information.
My father very well
could
have seen that I'd be fighting
Kiliman, but not known that I'd be without my Translator's
Lenses.

J
ust to be certain, I tried the Lens
I
'd f
ou
nd in the tomb
of Alcatraz
the First.
But, it wasn't a Transl
a
t
o
r's Lens, so it
didn't let me read the inscription.
Sighing, I put it away.

Information.
I didn't have it.
Finally, I b
e
gan to grasp
what Grandpa Smedry kept saying.
The
p
e
rso
n
who won
the battle wasn't necessarily the one with the
b
igg
e
st army
or the best weapons
–
it
was the one who
understo
od the
most about the situation.

“
Alcatraz," Bastille said.
"Please.
My moth
e
r . . ."

I glanced at her.
Bastille is strong.
H
e
r to
u
gh
n
ess is
n
't
just an act, like it is with some people.
Yet, I've seen her
really, truly worried on a number of occasions.
I
t's always
when someone she loves is in danger.

I wasn't sure if Draulin deserved that loyalty, but I
wasn't going to question a girl's love for her mother
.

"Right," I said. "Sorry. We'll come back for this
la
ter."

Bastille nodded.
"You want me to go scout?"

"Yeah.
Be careful.
I can feel Kiliman just ahead."

S
he needed no further warning.
I turned toward
Australia.
"How quick
ly can you fail asleep?”

"Oh, in about five minutes.”

"Get to it, then," I said.

"
W
ho should I think about?
”
she asked.
“
That
’
ll be the
person I look like when I wake up
,”
she grimaced at that
concept.

"It depends," I said.
"How flexible
i
s
your T
a
lent?
W
hat
kinds of things ca
n you become, if you try?”

"I once dreamed about a hot day and I woke up as a
Popsicle."

W
ell
, I thought,
that's one thing she
’
s got on me
.
Either
way, it meant that the Talent was pretty darn flexible – more
so than Kaz had given it credit.

Bastille was back a few seconds later.
“He’
s there,
”
she
whispered.
"Talking into a C
ourier
’
s Lens, but not making
much progress because of the Library's interference.
I think
he's seeking direct
ion about what to do with you.”

"Your mother?"

"Tied up on the side of the room,
”
Bastille said.
“They’
re
in a large, circular chamber with scroll cases running along
the outside.
Alcatraz. . . he's got Kaz
too, tied up with my
mother. Kaz can't use his T
alent if he can't move.”

"Your mother?" I asked.
"How's she look?"

Bastille's expression grew dark.
"It was hard to tell from
the distance, but I could see that she hasn't been healed yet.
Kiliman must still have her Fleshstone."
She pulled her
dagger from its sheath.

I grimaced, then glanced at Australia.

"So, who am I supposed to look like again?" she asked,
yawning.
To her credit, she already looked drowsy.

"Put away that dagger, Bastille," I said.
"We're not going
to need it."

"It's the only weapon we have!" she protested.

“
Actually, it's not.
We've got something far, far
better. . . ."

Are you sure I can't stop the book here?
I mean, this
next part isn't really all that
i
mportant.
Really.

All right, fine.

Bastille and I dashed into the room.
It was just like she
had described
–
wide
and circular, with a domed roof and
racks of scrolls around the outside.
I didn't need the
Discerner's Lenses to tell that these scrolls were old.
It
was
a wonder they hadn't fallen apart.

A smattering of ghostly
C
urators moved through the
chamber,
several of them whispering tempting words to
Kaz and Draulin.
The captives lay on the ground
–
Kaz
looking furious,
Drau
l
in
looking sick
ly and
dazed
– directly
opposite from the doorway Bastille and I came in through.

Kiliman stood near the captives, Crystin sword on an
an
cient reading table beside him.
He looked up when we
entered, seeming completely shocked.
Even if he
’d antici
pated trouble, he obviously hadn't been expecting me to
charge into the room head-
on.

To be honest, I was a little surprised myself.

Kaz
began to struggle even harder, and a Curator floated
toward him, looming menacingly.
Kiliman smiled, flesh
lips rising on one side of his twisted face, metal ones rising
on the other side. Gears, bolts, and screws shifted around
his single, beady glass eye. The
S
crivener
’s Bone immedi
ately grabbed Draulin's crystal sword in one hand, then he
pulled out a Lens with the other.

"Thank
y
ou, Smedry," he said,
"for saving me
the trou
ble
of having to go and fetch you.”

W
e charged.
To this day,
that is probably one of the very
mo
st ridiculous sights in which I’
ve ever participated.
Two
kids, barely into our teens, carrying no visible weapons,
charging directly at a seven-foot-tall half-human Librarian
with a massive crystalline sword.

We reached him at the same time
–
Bastille
had paced
herself to keep from outrunning me
–
and
I felt my heart
begin
to flutter with anxiety.

What was I doing?

Kiliman swung.
At
m
e, of course.
I threw myself
into a roll, feeling the sword whoosh over my head.
At
that moment
–
while
Kiliman was distracted
–
Bastille
whipped a boot out of her pack and threw it directly at
Kiliman's head.

It hit, sole first.
The Grappler's Glass im
m
ediately
locked onto the glass of Kiliman's left eye. The front tip of
the boot extended over the bridge of his nose, jutting out
past the side of his face, almost completely obscuring the
view out his flesh eye as well.

The Librarian stood for a moment, see
m
ing co
m
pletely
dumbfounded.
That was
p
robably the proper reaction for
one who had just gotten hit in the face by
a
large, magical
boot.
Then he cursed, reaching up awkwardly, trying to
pull the boot off of his face.

I scrambled to my feet.
Bastille whipped out the second
boot, then threw it
–
her
aim dead on
–
at
the pouch on
Kiliman's belt.
The boot stuck to the glass inside, and
Bastille yanked hard on the trip wire in her hands
–
which
was, of course, tied to the boot.

The pouch ripped free, and Bastille pulled the whole
lot
–
wire, boot, and pouch
–
back
into her hands, like
some strange fisherman without enough money to afford
a pole. She
g
rinned at me, then pulled open the
pouch, tri
umphantly revealing the crystal inside, stuck to the boot.

She tossed it all to me.
I caught the boot, then turned
off its glass.
The pouch fe
l
l into my hand.
Inside it, I found
the Fleshstone
–
which
I tossed to Bastille
–
and
some
thing else.
A Lens.