"They get a few things wrong here,” Himalaya whispered, "but it's still the closest you'll get to American food while in Nalhalla."
I nodded thankfully to the owner, who smiled with pleasure. He left a handful of mints on the table, though I don't quite know why, then went back to serving customers. I glanced at the dessert he'd provided. It was, indeed, a large bandana filled with ice cream. I tasted it hesitantly but it actually was kind of good, in an odd way. I couldn't quite place the flavor.
That probably should have worried me.
"Alcatraz Smedry," Folsom said, as if taking the name for a test drive. "I have to admit, your latest book was a disappointment. One and a half stars out of five."
I had a moment of panic, thinking he referred to the second book of my autobiography. However, I soon realized that was silly, since it not only hadn't been written yet but I didn't even know that I would write it. I promptly stopped that line of thinking before I caused a temporal rift and ended up doing something silly, like killing a butterfly or interfering with mankind's first warp jump.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, taking another bite of ice cream.
"Oh, I have it here somewhere," Folsom said, rifling in his shoulder bag.
"I didn't think it was so bad," Himalaya said. "Of course, my tastes are tainted by ten years as a Librarian."
"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 alphabetically 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 introducing 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 enormous vacuum cleaner while wearing a sombrero. I held a flintlock rifle in one hand and what appeared to be a glowing, 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 novels!"
"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 mystical weapon, a boy on a journey, 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 part of the cultural 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 classifying 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, Alcatraz.”
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 trustworthy."
If that's the case, then why does she need a guard to watch over her? I didn't buy that Folsom was needed to accustom her to life in the Free Kingdoms – not after six months. Unfortunately, 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 too 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 specifically 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 up 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 the kind of information my grandfather 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 cleaner rider and wearer of the awesome sombrero, didn't stand for things like that. He was a man of action!
"I w
ant 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 party.” 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."
CHAPTER 7
Okay, go 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? You must not have read very carefully. 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 addition, he taught people to ask questions 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 buy 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 carriage.
"The High King's son," Folsom said. "Rikers Dartmoor. Out of seven crowns, I'd give him five and a half. He's likable 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.
"Shattering 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 critics 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 Mechanic'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, you’re riding a vacuum cleaner.”
“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 continued. "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 that direction to leave, then –“
"We don't need an invitation," I said, gathering my confidence. "I'm Alcatraz 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.
"Surely 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."
"Just . . . well, trying to offer some constructive advice," Folsom said, blushing again.
"You should be ashamed of trying to use an Alcatraz 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 Talent is very powerful, if a little 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 Talent," 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. Alcatraz, 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 doorway. 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 by rubbing their fingers on crystal 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 Alcatraz Smedry and guests." Then he turned around and walked away.
I stood awkwardly at the doorway 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.
A figure suddenly pushed to the front of the crowd. The thirty-something man was wearing lavish robes of blue and silver, and had a short red beard. He also wore a bright red baseball cap on his head. This was undoubtedly Rikers Dartmoor, novelist, prince, fashion mistake.