If you've never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise . . . okay, I'm going to assume that you've never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise. Suffice it to say that the experience was quite amusing, in a creepy sort of way.
"He speaks our language!" one hissed.
"Impossible," another said. "Nobody outside the Library knows it."
"Could he be Tharandes?"
"He would have died millennia ago!"
Bastille and Kaz were watching me. I winked at them.
"Translator's Lenses," one of the Curators suddenly hissed. "See!"
"Impossible," another said. "Nobody could have gathered the Sands of Rashid."
"But he has . . . ," said a third. "Yes, they must be Lenses of Rashid!"
The three ghosts looked even more amazed than they had before.
"What's happening?" Bastille whispered.
"I'll tell you in a minute."
Based on the Curators' own rules, there was one way to discover if my father really had come to the Library of Alexandria and given up his soul. "I am the son of Attica Smedry," I said to the group of creatures. "I've come here for his personal effects. Your own laws say you must provide them to me."
There was a moment of silence.
“We cannot," one of the Curators finally said.
I sighed in relief. If my father had come to the Library, then he hadn't given up his soul. The Curators didn't have his personal items.
“We cannot," the Curator continued, skull teeth beginning to twist upward in an evil smile. "Because we have already given them away!'
I felt a stab of shock. No. It can't be! “I don't believe you," I whispered.
"We cannot lie," another said. "Your father came to us, and he sold his soul to us. He only wanted three minutes to read the book, and then he was taken to become one of us. His personal items have already been claimed – someone did so this very day.”
"Who?" I demanded. “Who claimed them? My grandfather?"
"No," the Curator said, smile deepening. "They were claimed by Shasta Smedry. Your mother."
CHAPTER 12
I would like to apologize for the introduction to the last chapter. It occurs to me that this book, while random at times, really shouldn't waste its time on anarchist farm animals, whether or not they have bazookas. It's just plain silly, and since I abhor silliness, I would like to ask you to do me a favor.
Flip back two chapters, where the introduction should now contain the bunny paragraphs (since you cut them out of chapter Eleven and pasted them in chapter Ten instead). Cut those paragraphs out again, then go find a book by Jane Austen and paste them in there instead. The paragraphs will be much happier there, as Jane was quite fond of bunnies and bazookas, or so I'm told. It has to do with being a proper young lady living in the nineteenth century. But that's another story entirely.
I walked, head bowed, watching the ground in front of us for trip wires. I wore the Discerner's Lenses again, the Translator's Lenses stowed carefully in their pocket.
I was beginning to accept that my father – a man I'd never met, but whom I'd traveled halfway across the world to find – might be dead. Or worse than dead. If the Curators were telling the truth, Attica's soul had been ripped away from him, then used to fuel the creation of another twisted Curator of Alexandria. I would never know him, never meet him. My father was no more.
Equally disturbing was the knowledge that my mother was somewhere in these catacombs. Though I'd always known her as Ms. Fletcher, her actual name was Shasta. (Like many Librarians, she was named after a mountain.)
Ms. Fletcher – or Shasta, or whatever her name was – had worked as my personal caseworker during my years as a foster child in the Hushlands. She'd always treated me harshly, never giving me a hint that she was, in truth, my blood mother. Did she have something to do with the twisted, half-human Scrivener's Bone that was hunting me? How had she known about my father's trip to Alexandria? And what would she do if she found me here?
Something glowed on the ground in front of us, slightly brighter than the stones around it.
"Stop," I said, causing Bastille and Kaz to freeze. “Trip wire, right there."
Bastille knelt down. "So there is," she said, sounding impressed.
We carefully made our way over it, then continued on. During our last hour of walking, we'd left hallways filled with scrolls behind. More and more frequently, we were passing hallways filled with bookshelves. These books were still and musty, with cracking leather-bound covers, but they were obviously newer than the scrolls.
Every book ever written. Was there, somewhere in here, a room filled with paperback romance novels? The thought was amusing to me, but I wasn't sure why. The curators claimed to collect knowledge. It didn't matter to them what kinds of stories or facts the books contained – they would gather it all, store it, and keep it safe. Until someone wanted to trade their soul for it.
I felt very sorry for the person who was tricking into giving up their soul for a trashy romance novel.
We kept moving. Theoretically Kaz's Talent was leading us toward Australia, but it seemed to me like we were just walking aimlessly. Considering the nature of his Talent, that was probably a good sign.
"Kaz,” I said. "Did you know my mother?"
The short man eyed me. "Sure did. She was . . . well, is . . . my sister-in-law."
"They never divorced?"
Kaz shook his head. "I'm not sure what happened – they had a falling-out, obviously. Your father gave you away to be cared for in foster homes, and your mother took up position watching over you." He paused, then shook his head. "We were all there at your naming, Al. That was the day when your father pronounced the Sands of Rashid upon you as your inheritance. We're still not sure how he got them to you at the right time, in the right place."
"Oracle's Lenses" I said.
"He has a pair of those?"
I nodded.
"Walnuts! The prophets in Ventat are supposed to have the only pair in existence. I wonder where Attica found some."
I shrugged. "He mentioned them in the letter he sent me."
Kaz nodded thoughtfully. "Well, your father disappeared just a few days after pronouncing your blessing, so I guess there just wasn't time for a divorce. Your mother could ask for one, but she really has no motivation to do so. After all, she'd lose her Talent."
"What?"
"Her Talent, Al," Kaz said. "She's a Smedry now."
"Only by marriage."
"Doesn't matter,” Kaz said. "The spouse of a Smedry gains their husband's or wife's same Talent as soon as the marriage is official."
I'd assumed that Talents were genetic – that they were passed on from parents to children, kind of the same way that skin color or hair color was. But this meant they were something different. That seemed important.
That does make some things make more sense, I thought. Grandpa Smedry said he'd worried that my mother had only married my father for his Talent. I'd assumed that she'd been enthralled with the Talent, much as someone might marry a rock star for his guitar skills. However, that didn't sound like my mother.
She'd wanted a Talent. "So, my mother's Talent is . . ."
"Losing things," Kaz said. "Just like your father's." He smiled, eyes twinkling. "I don't think she's ever figured out how to use it properly. She's a Librarian – she believes in order, lists, and catalogues. To use a Talent, you just have to be able to let yourself be out of control for a while."
I nodded. "What did you think? When he married her, I mean."
"I thought he was an idiot,” Kaz said. “And I told him so, as is the solemn duty of younger brothers. He married her anyway, the stubborn hazelnut."
About what I expected, I thought.
"But, Attica seemed to love her," Kaz continued with a sigh. “And, to be perfectly honest, she wasn't as bad as many Librarians. For a while, it seemed like they might actuall
y make things work. Then . . . it fell apart. Right around the time you were born."
I frowned. "But, she was a Librarian agent all along, right? She just wanted to get Father's Talent."
"Some still think that's the case. She really did seem to care for him, though. I . . . well, I just don't know."
"She had to be faking," I said stubbornly.
"If you say so," Kaz said. "I think you may be letting your preconceptions cloud your thinking."
I shook my head. "No. I don't do that."
"Oh, you don't?" Kaz said, amused. "Well then, let's try something. Why don't you tell me about your grandfather; pretend I don't know anything about him, and you want to describe him to me."
"Okay," I said slowly. "Grandpa Smedry is a brilliant Oculator who is a little bit zany, but who is one of the Free Kingdom's most important figures. He has the Talent to arrive late to things."
"Great," Kaz said. "Now tell me about Bastille."
I eyed her, and she shot me a threatening glance. "Uh, Bastille is a Crystin. I think that's about all I can say without her throwing something at me."
"Good enough. Australia?"
I shrugged. "She seems a bit scatterbrained, but is a good person. She's an Oculator and has a Smedry Talent."
"Okay," Kaz said. "Now talk about me."
“Well, you're a short person who –“
"Stop," Kaz said.
I did so, shooting him a questioning glance.
"Why is it," Kaz said, "that with the others, the first thing you described about them was their job or their personality? Yet, with me, the first thing you mentioned was my height?"
"I ...uh..."
Kaz laughed. "I'm not trying to trap you, kid. But, maybe you see why I get so annoyed sometimes. The trouble with being different is that people start defining you by what you are instead of by who you are."
I fell silent.
"Your mother is a Librarian," Kaz said. "Because of that, we tend to think of her as a Librarian first, and a person second. Our knowledge of her as a Librarian clouds everything else."
"She's not a good person, Kaz,” I said. “She offered to sell me to a Dark Oculator."
"Did she?" Kaz asked. "What exactly did she say?"
I thought back to the time when Bastille, Sing, and I had been hiding in the library, listening to Ms. Fletcher speak with Blackburn. “Actually," I said, "she didn't say anything. It was the Dark Oculator who said something like, ‘You'd sell the boy too, wouldn't you? You impress me.’ And she just shrugged or nodded or something."
"So," Kaz said, "she didn't offer to sell you out."
"She didn't contradict Blackburn."
Kaz shook his head. "Shasta has her own agenda, kid. I don't think any of us can presume to understand exactly what she's up to. Your father saw something in her. I still think he's a fool for marrying her, but for a Librarian, she wasn't too bad."
I wasn't convinced. My bias against Librarians wasn't the only thing making me distrust Shasta. She had consistently berated me as a child, saying I was worthless. (I now know she had been trying to get me to stop using my Talent, for fear it would expose me to those who were searching for the Sands.) Either way, she'd been my mother all that time, and she hadn't ever given me even a hint of confirmation.
Though . . . she had stayed with me, always, watching over me.
I pushed that thought aside. She didn't deserve credit for that – she'd just been hoping for the chance to grab the sands of Rashid. The very day they arrived, she showed up and swiped them.
". . . don't know, Kaz,” Bastille was saying. "I think that the main reason people think of your height first is because of that ridiculous List of yours."
"My List is not ridiculous," Kaz said with a huff. "It's very scientific."
"Oh?" Bastille asked. "Didn't you claim that 'short people are better because it takes them longer to walk places, therefore they get more exercise'?"
"That one has been clinically proven.” Kaz said, pointing at her.
"It does seem a bit of a stretch," I said, smiling.
"You forget Reason number one," he said. "'Don't argue with the short person.' He's always right."
Bastille snorted. "It's a good thing you don't claim short people are more humble."
Kaz fell silent. "That's Reason two thirty-six," he muttered quietly. "I just haven't mentioned that one yet."
Bastille shot me a glance through her sunglasses, and I could tell she was rolling her eyes. However, even though I didn't believe Kaz about my mother, I thought his comments about how to treat people were valid.
Who we are - meaning, the person we become by doing things – which – incidentally – is actually a function of who we are – for example, I’ve become an Oculator – which is quite fun – but doing things that relate to Oculators – not who we can be – is more important – actually – than what we look like.
For instance, the fact that I use lots of dashes in my writing is part of what makes me, me. I'd rather be known by this – since it's cool – than by the fact that I have a big nose. Which I don't. Why are you looking at me like that?
"Wait!" I said, holding out a hand.
Bastille froze.
"Trip wire," I said, heart pounding. Her foot hovered just a few inches from it.
She backed away, and Kaz squatted down. “Well done, kid. It's a good thing you have those Lenses."
"Yeah," I said, taking them off and cleaning them. I guess." I still wished I had a weapon instead of another pair of Lenses that showed me random stuff. Wouldn't a sword have been equally useful?
Of course, I might think that just because I really like swords. Give me the chance, and I'd probably cut my wedding cake with one.
I did have to admit, though, that I'd made pretty good use of the Discerner's Lenses. Maybe I'd discounted them too quickly at first. I cleaned my Lenses, feeling an odd sensation from inside. It was slight, a little like indigestion, but less foody.
I shook my head and put the Discerner's Lenses back on, then guided the other two over the trip wire. As I did, I noticed something interesting. "There's a second trip wire just a few feet ahead."
"They're getting more clever," Bastille said. "They figured we'd see this one, but hoped we'd feel safe once we passed it – then go right on and trip the second."
I nodded, glancing at the Curators floating behind. I noticed that the odd sensation was getting stronger. It was hard to explain. It wasn't really a sick feeling. More like a slight itch on my emotions.
"We need to find Australia quickly, Kaz,” Bastille said. "Is it supposed to take this long?"
"Never can tell, with the Talent," Kaz said. “Australia might not actually be lost. If that's the case, it will take me a lot longer to find her than it took me to find you. Like I mentioned earlier, if I don't know where to go, then my Talent can't really take me there."
Bastille didn't seem pleased to hear this. "Maybe we should start looking for the Old Smedry instead."
"If I know my father, he's not lost,” Kaz said, rubbing his chin. "He'll be even more difficult to find.”
I was barely paying attention to them. The itch was still there. It wasn't the same feeling that I got from the hunter that was chasing me, but it was similar. . . .
"So, do we just keep going?" Bastille asked.
"I guess so," Kaz said.
"No," I said suddenly, looking at them. "Kaz, turn off your Talent."
Bastille looked at me, frowning. "What is it?”
"Someone's using a Lens nearby."
"The Scrivener's Bone chasing us?"
I shook my head. "This is a regular Lens, not a twisted one like he uses. It means there is an Oculator close to us." I paused, then pointed. "That way."
Bastille shared a look with Kaz. "Let's go check it out,” she said.
CHAPTER 13
I have to apologize for the introduction to that last chapter. It was far too apologetic. There's been too much apologizing going on in th
is book. I'm sorry. I want to prove to you that I'm a liar, not a wimp.
The thing is, you never know who is going to be reading your books. I've tried to write this one for members of both the Hushlands and the Free Kingdoms, and that's tough enough. However, even within the Hushlands, the variety of people who could pick this book up is incredible.
You could be a young boy, wanting to read an adventure story. You could be a young girl, wanting to investigate the truth of the Librarian Conspiracy. You might be a mother, reading this book because you've heard that so many of your kids are reading it. Or you could be a serial killer who specializes in reading books, then seeking out the authors and murdering them in horrible ways.
(If you happen to fall into that last category, you should know that my name isn't really Alcatraz Smedry, nor is it Brandon Sanderson. My name is really Garth Nix, and you can find me in Australia. Oh, and I insulted your mother once. What're you going to do about it, huh?)
Anyway it's very difficult to relate this story to everyone who might be reading my book. So, I've decided not to try. Instead, I'll just say something that makes no sense to anyone: Flagwat the happy beansprout.
Confusion, after all, is the true universal language.
"The feeling is coming from that direction," I said, pointing. Unfortunately, "that direction" happened to be straight through a wall full of books.
"So . . . one of the books is an Oculator?" Kaz asked.
I rolled my eyes.
He chuckled. "I understood what you meant. Stop acting like Bastille. Obviously we have to find a way around. There must be another hallway on the other side."
I nodded, but . . . the Lens felt close. We'd walked down a few rows already, coming to this point, and I felt like it was just on the other side of the wall.
I took off my Discerner's Lenses, putting on my Oculator's Lenses instead. One of their main functions was to reveal Oculatory power, and they made the entire wall glow with a bright white light. I stumbled back, shocked by the powerful illumination.