Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

“Haven’t you noticed?” she asked, looking at me. “My mother doesn’t have a prison name.”

“So?”

“So, I do.”

I scratched my head.

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” she asked.

I snorted. “Well, excuse me for being raised on a completely different continent from you people. What are you talking about?”

“You are named Alcatraz after Alcatraz the First,” Bastille said. “The Smedrys use names like that a lot, names from their heritage. The Librarians, then, have tried to discredit those names by using them for prisons.”

“You’re not a Smedry,” I said, “but you have a prison name too.”

“Yes, but my family is also … traditional. They tend to use famous names over and over again like your family does. That’s not something that common people do.”

I blinked.

Bastille rolled her eyes. “My father’s a nobleman, Smedry,” she said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I have a traditional name because I’m his daughter. My full name is Bastille Vianitelle the Ninth.”

“Ah, right.” It’s sort of like what rich people, kings, and popes do in the Hushlands—they reuse old names, then add a number.

“I grew up with everyone expecting me to be a leader,” she said. “Only, I’m not very well suited to it. Not like you.”

“I’m not well suited to it!”

She snorted. “You are good with people, Smedry. Me, I don’t want to lead people. They kind of annoy me.”

“You should have become a novelist.”

“Don’t like the hours,” she said. “Anyway, I can tell you that growing up learning how to lead doesn’t make any difference. A lifetime of training only makes you understand how inadequate you are.”

We fell silent.

“So … what happened?” I asked. “How did you end up as a Crystin?”

“My mother,” Bastille said. “She’s not noble, but she is a Crystin. She always pushed me to become a Knight of Crystallia, saying that my father didn’t need another useless daughter hanging about. I tried to prove her wrong, but I’m too well-bred to do something simple, like become a baker or a carpenter.”

“So you tried to become an Oculator.”

She nodded. “I didn’t tell anyone. Of course I’d heard that Oculatory power was genetic, but I intended to prove everyone wrong. I’d be the first Oculator in my line, then my mother and father would be impressed.

“Well, you know how that turned out. So I joined the Crystin, like my mother had always said I should. I had to give up my title and my money. Now I’m realizing how foolish that decision was. I make an even worse Crystin than I did an Oculator.”

She sighed, folding her arms again. “The thing is, I thought—for a while—that I would be good at it. I made knight faster than anyone ever had. Then I was immediately sent out to protect the old Smedry—which was one of the most dangerous, difficult assignments the knights had. I still don’t know why they picked that as my first job. It’s never made sense.”

“It’s almost like they were setting you up to fail.”

She sat for a moment. “I never thought about it that way. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But you have to admit, it does sound suspicious. Maybe someone in charge of giving the assignments was jealous of how quickly you made it to knight, and wanted to see you fall.”

“At the cost, maybe, of the old Smedry’s life?”

I shrugged. “People do strange things sometimes, Bastille.”

“I still find it hard to believe,” she said. “Besides, my mother was part of the group that makes those assignments.”

“She seems like a hard one to please.”

Bastille snorted. “That’s an understatement. I made knight, and all she could say was, ‘Make certain you live up to the honor.’ I think she was expecting me to bungle my first job—maybe that’s why she came to get me herself.”

I didn’t reply, but somehow I knew we were thinking the same thing. Bastille’s own mother couldn’t have been the one to set her up to fail, could she? That seemed a stretch. Although my mother had stolen my inheritance, then sold me out to the Librarians. So maybe Bastille and I were a well-matched pair.

I sat against the wall, looking up, and my mind turned away from Bastille’s problems and back to what I’d said earlier. It had felt good to get the thoughts out. It had helped me, finally, sort through how I felt. A few months back, I would have settled for simply being normal. Now I knew that being a Smedry meant something. The more time I spent filling that role, the more I wanted to do it well. To justify the name I bore, and live up to what my grandfather and the others expected of me.

Perhaps you find that ironic. There I was, deciding bravely that I would take upon myself the mantle that had been quite randomly thrust upon me. Now, here I am, writing my memoirs, trying as hard as I can to throw off that very same mantle.

I wanted to be famous. That should in itself be enough to make you worried. Never trust a man who wants to be a hero. We’ll talk about this more in the next book.

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” Bastille asked, smiling for the first time I’d seen since we fell down the shaft.