Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

“For most people there is no way,” Draulin said, sitting down on a piece of the wreckage, then taking off her armored boots. She pulled out a few pieces of specially shaped glass and slid them into place. “We simply cover them with plates like these, so the boots stick to those instead.”

I nodded. The plates in question had soles and heels on the bottom, and probably felt like normal shoes.

“You, however, are an Oculator,” she said.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Oculators aren’t like regular people, Alcatraz,” Australia said, smiling. Her head had stopped bleeding, and she’d tied a bandage to it. A pink one. I had no idea where she had found it.

“Indeed, my lord,” Draulin said. “You can use Lenses, but you also have some limited power over silimatic glass, what we call ‘technology.’”

“You mean like the engine?” I asked, slipping on my Oculator’s Lenses.

Draulin nodded. “Try deactivating the boots like you would Lenses.”

I did so, touching them. Surprisingly, the sand and glass dropped free, the boots becoming inert.

“Those boots had been given a silimatic charge,” Australia explained. “Kind of like batteries you use in the Hushlands. The boots will run out eventually. Until then, an Oculator can turn them off and on.”

“One of the great mysteries of our age,” Draulin said, her boots replaced. The way she said it indicated that she didn’t really care how or why things worked, only that they did.

Me, I was more curious. I’d been told several times about Free Kingdomer technology. It seemed a simple distinction to me. Magic was the sort of thing that only worked for certain people, while technology—often called silimatics—worked for anyone. Australia had been able to fly Dragonaut, but so had Kaz. It was technology.

But what I had barely learned seemed to indicate that there was a relationship between this technology of theirs and Oculatory powers. However, the conversation reminded me of something else. I didn’t have any idea if we were closer to Alexandria now than we had been before, but it seemed a good idea to try contacting my grandfather again.

I slipped on the Courier’s Lenses and concentrated. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get anything out of them. I left them on just in case, then stuffed the Grappler’s Glass boots into one of the packs.

I slung it over my shoulder; however, Bastille took it from me. I shot her a frown.

“Sorry,” she said. “My mother’s orders.”

“You don’t need to carry anything, Lord Smedry,” Draulin said, hefting another pack. “Let Squire Bastille do it.”

“I can carry my own backpack, Draulin,” I snapped.

“Oh?” she asked. “And if we get attacked, do you not need to be ready and agile so that you can use your Lenses to defend us?” She turned away from me. “Squire Bastille is good at carrying things. Allow her to do this—it will let her be useful and make her feel a sense of accomplishment.”

Bastille flushed. I opened my mouth to argue some more, but Bastille shot me a glance that quieted me.

Fine, I thought. We all looked toward Kaz, ready to go. “Onward, then!” the short man said, taking off across the sand up toward the trees.

Chapter 6

Adults are not idiots.

Often, in books such as this one, the opposite impression is given. Adults in those stories will either (a) get captured, (b) disappear conspicuously when there is trouble, or (c) refuse to help.

(I’m not sure what authors have against adults, but everyone seems to hate them to an extent usually reserved for dogs and mothers. Why else make them out to be such idiots? “Ah look, the dark lord of evil has come to attack the castle! Annnnd there’s my lunch break. Have fun saving the world on your own, kids!”)

In the real world, adults tend to get involved in everything, whether you want them to or not. They won’t disappear when the dark lord appears, though they may try to sue him. This discrepancy is yet another proof that most books are fantasies while this book is utterly true and invaluable. You see, in this book, I will make it completely clear that all adults are not idiots.

They are, however, hairy.

Adults are like hairy kids who like to tell others what to do. Despite what other books may claim, they do have their uses. They can reach things on high shelves, for instance. (Though, Kaz would argue that such high shelves shouldn’t be necessary. Reference reason number sixty-three, which will be explained at a later point.)

Regardless, I often wish that the two groups—adults and kids—could find a way to get along better. Some sort of treaty or something. The biggest problem is, the adults have one of the most effective recruitment strategies in the world.

Give them enough time, and they’ll turn any kid into one of them.

We entered the jungle.

“Everyone remember to stay in sight of someone else in the group,” Kaz said. “There’s no telling where we’ll leave you if you get separated!”