Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

“Well, good, then,” I said, feeling a little anxious as I realized what I’d done. Only a short time back, I’d been eager to get to safety. Now I was determined to head to a place that everyone else was telling me was insanely, ridiculously dangerous?

What was I doing? What business did I have taking command and giving orders? Feeling self-conscious, I left the cockpit again. Bastille trailed along behind me. “I’m not sure why I did that,” I confessed as we walked.

“Your grandfather might be in danger.”

“Yeah, but what are we going to do about it?”

“We helped him in the last library infiltration,” she said. “Saved him from Blackburn.”

I fell silent, walking down the glass corridor. Yes, we had saved Grandpa Smedry … but … well, something told me that Grandpa Smedry would have gotten away from Blackburn eventually. The old Smedry had lived for more than a century, and—from what I understood—had managed to wiggle out of plenty of predicaments far worse than that one.

He’d been the one to fight Blackburn with the Lenses—I’d been helpless. True, I’d managed to break the Firebringer’s Lens and trick Blackburn in the end. But I hadn’t really known what I was doing. My victories seemed more like happenstance than anything else. And now I was heading into danger yet again?

Nevertheless, it was done. Dragonaut had changed course, and we were on our way. We’ll look around outside the place, I thought. If it seems too dangerous, we don’t have to go in.

I was about to explain this decision to Bastille when a sudden voice spoke from behind us. “Bastille! We’ve changed course. What’s that all about?”

I turned in shock. A short man, perhaps four feet tall, was walking down the corridor toward us. He most certainly hadn’t been there before, and I couldn’t figure out where he’d come from.

The man wore rugged clothing: a leather jacket, his tunic tucked into sturdy pants, a pair of boots. He had a wide face with a broad chin and dark, curly hair.

“A fairy!” I said immediately.

The short man stopped, looking confused. “That’s a new one,” he noted.

“What kind are you?” I asked. “Leprechaun? Elf?”

The short man raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Bastille. “Hazelnuts, Bastille,” he swore. “Who’s this clown?”

“Kaz, this is your nephew Alcatraz.”

The short man glanced back at me. “Oh … I see. He seems a bit more dense than I assumed he’d be.”

I flushed. “You’re … not a fairy, then?”

He shook his head.

“Are you a dwarf? Like in Lord of the Rings?”

He shook his head.

“You’re just a … midget?”

He regarded me with a flat stare. “You realize that midget isn’t a good term to use, don’t you? Even most Hushlanders know that. Midget is what people used to call my kind when they stuck us in freak shows.”

I paused. “What should I call you, then?”

“Well, Kaz is preferable. Kazan is my full name, though the blasted Librarians finally named a prison that a while back.”

Bastille nodded. “In Russia.”

The short man sighed. “Regardless, if you absolutely have to reference my height, I generally think that short person works fine. Anyway, is someone going to explain why we changed course?”

I was still too busy being embarrassed to answer. I hadn’t intended to insult my uncle. (Fortunately, I’ve gotten much better at this over the years. I’m now quite good at insulting people intentionally, and I can even do it in languages you Free Kingdomers don’t speak. So there, you dagblad.)

Thankfully, Bastille spoke up and answered Kaz’s question. “We got word that your father is at the Library of Alexandria. We think he might be in trouble.”

“So we’re heading there?” Kaz asked.

Bastille nodded.

Kaz perked up. “Wonderful!” he said. “Finally some good news on this trip.”

“Wait,” I said. “That’s good news?”

“Of course it is! I’ve wanted to explore that place for decades. Never could find a good enough excuse. I’ll go get prepared!” He took off down the corridor toward the cockpit.

“Kaz?” Bastille called. He stopped, glancing back.

“Your room is that way.” She pointed down a side corridor.

“Coconuts,” he swore under his breath. Then he headed the way she’d indicated.

“That’s right,” I said. “His Talent. Getting lost.”

Bastille nodded. “What’s worse is that he generally acts as our guide.”

“How does that work?”

“Oddly,” she said, continuing down the corridor.

I sighed. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“You seem to have that effect on people when they first meet you. I didn’t like you very much at first either.” She eyed me. “Still not sure if that’s changed or not.”