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Why was it talking so loudly? It seemed to be pushing up against me a bit, its coldness prodding me on. As if it were trying to force me to walk faster.

In a moment I realized what was going on. The Curator was a fish. If that was the case, what was the shoes? (Metaphorically speaking. Read back a few chapters if you’ve forgotten.)

I closed my eyes, focusing. There, I heard it. A quiet voice calling for help. It sounded like Bastille.

I snapped my eyes open and ran down a side hallway. The ghost cursed in an obscure language—my Translator’s Lenses kindly let me know the meaning of the word, and I will be equally kind here in not repeating it, since it involved eggbeaters—and followed me.

I found her hanging from the ceiling between two pillars in the hallway, letting out a few curses of her own. She was tangled up in a strange network of ropes; some of them twisted around her legs, others held her arms. It seemed that her struggles were only making things worse.

“Bastille?” I asked.

She stopped struggling, silver hair hanging down around her face. “Smedry?”

“How did you get up there?” I asked, noticing a Curator floating in the air upside down beside her. Its robe didn’t seem to respond to gravity—but then, that’s rather common for ghosts, I would think.

“Does it matter?” Bastille snapped, flailing about, apparently trying to shake herself free.

“Stop struggling. You’re only making it worse.”

She huffed, but stopped.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I asked.

“Trap,” she said, twisting about a bit. “I triggered a tripwire, and the next moment I was hanging up here. If that wasn’t bad enough, the burning-eyed freak here keeps whispering to me that he can give me a book that will show me how to escape. It’ll just cost my soul!”

“Where’s your dagger?” I asked.

“In my pack.”

I saw it on the floor a short distance away. I walked over, watching out for tripwires. Inside, I found her crystalline dagger, along with some foodstuffs and—I was surprised to remember—the boots with Grappler’s Glass on the bottoms. I smiled.

“I’ll be right there,” I said, putting the boots on and activating the glass. Then, I proceeded to try walking up the side of the wall.

If you’ve never attempted this, I heartily recommend it. There’s a very nice rush of wind, accompanied by an inviting feeling of vertigo, as you fall backward and hit the ground. You also look something like an idiot—but for most of us, that’s nothing new.

“What are you doing?” Bastille asked.

“Trying to walk to you,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my head.

“Grappler’s Glass, Smedry. It only sticks to other pieces of glass.”

Ah, right, I thought. Now, this might have seemed like a very stupid thing to forget, but you can’t blame me. I was suffering from having fallen to the ground and hit my head, after all.

“Well, how am I going to get up to you, then?”

“You could throw me the dagger.”

I looked at her skeptically. The ropes seemed wound pretty tightly around her. They, however, were connected to the pillars.

“Hang on,” I said, walking up to one of the pillars.

“Alcatraz…” she said, sounding uncertain. “What are you doing?”

I laid my hand against the pillar, then closed my eyes. I’d destroyed the jet by touching the smoke … could I do something like that here too? Guide my Talent up the pillar to the ropes?

“Alcatraz!” Bastille said. “I don’t want to get squished by a bunch of falling pillars. Don’t…”

I released a burst of breaking power.

“Gak!”

She said this last part as her ropes—which were connected to the pillars—frayed and fell to pieces. I opened my eyes in time to see her grab the one remaining whole piece of rope and swing down to the ground, landing beside me, puffing slightly.

She looked up. The pillar didn’t fall on us. I removed my hand.

She cocked her head, then regarded me. “Huh.”

“Not bad, eh?”

She shrugged. “A real man would have climbed up and cut me down with the dagger. Come on. We’ve got to find the others.”

I rolled my eyes, but took her thank-you for what it was worth. She stuffed the boots and dagger back in her pack, then threw it over her shoulder. We walked down the hallway for a moment, then spun as we heard a crashing sound.

The pillar had finally decided to topple, throwing up broken chips of stone as it hit the ground. The entire hallway shook from the impact.

A wave of dust from the rubble puffed around us. Bastille gave me a suffering look, then sighed and continued walking.

<p>Chapter</p><p>10</p>

You may wonder why I hate fantasy novels so much. Or maybe you don’t. That doesn’t really matter, because I’m going to tell you anyway.

(Of course, if you want to know how the book ends, you could skip to the last page—but I wouldn’t recommend that. It will prove very disturbing to your psyche.)

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Денис Ратманов

Фантастика / Фантастика для детей / Самиздат, сетевая литература / Альтернативная история / Попаданцы