Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

“Tracker’s Lens,” I said. “Kiliman’s. It was in the pouch with Draulin’s Fleshstone.”

“My mother,” Bastille said. “How is she?”

“I’m fine,” Draulin’s voice said. We spun to find her standing beside a sheepish Australia in the doorway.

“Fine” was a stretch—Draulin still looked pale, like someone who had been sick for far too long. Yet her step was steady as she walked into the room and joined us.

“Lord Smedry,” she said, going down on one knee. “I’ve failed you.”

“Nonsense,” I said.

“The Librarian of the Scrivener’s Bones captured me,” she said. “I was caught in a trap and tied up, and he was able to take me without any trouble. I have shamed my order.”

I rolled my eyes. “The rest of us got caught in Curator traps too. We were simply lucky enough to wiggle out of them before Kiliman found us.”

Draulin still bowed her head. On the back of her neck, I caught sight of a sparkling crystal—her Fleshstone, replaced.

“Get up and stop apologizing,” I said. “I’m serious. You did well. You forced a confrontation with Kiliman, and we won that confrontation. So, consider yourself part of our victory.”

Draulin stood up, though she didn’t appear appeased. She fell into her traditional parade-rest stance, looking straight ahead. “As you wish, Lord Smedry.”

“Mother,” Bastille said.

Draulin looked down.

“Here,” Bastille said, holding up the Crystin blade.

I blinked in shock. For some reason, I’d been expecting Bastille to keep that.

Draulin hesitated for a moment, then took the sword. “Thank you,” she said, then sheathed it on her back. “What are your plans now, Lord Smedry?”

“I’m … not sure yet,” I said.

“Then I will set up a perimeter around this room.” Draulin bowed to me, then walked over to the entrance and took up a guard position. Bastille moved toward the other entrance, but I grabbed her arm.

“That woman should be begging for your forgiveness.”

“Why?” Bastille asked.

“You’re in so much trouble because you lost your sword,” I said. “Well, Draulin didn’t do much better now, did she?”

“But she got hers back.”

“So?”

“So, she didn’t break it.”

“Only because of us.”

“No,” Bastille said, “because of you, Alcatraz. Kiliman defeated me—just like the Alivened in the downtown library did. You had to save me both times.”

“I…”

Bastille carefully removed my hand from her arm. “I appreciate it, Smedry. I really do. I’d be dead several times over if not for you.”

With that, she walked away. Never before had a thank-you seemed so despondent to my ears.

Things aren’t going to get fixed that easily, I thought. Bastille still considers herself a failure.

We’re going to have to do something about that.

“You going to destroy that, kid?” Kaz asked.

I glanced down, realizing that I still had Kiliman’s Tracker’s Lens in my fingers.

“It’s very Dark Oculary,” Kaz said, rubbing his chin. “Bloodforged Lenses are bad business.”

“We should destroy it, then,” I said. “At least turn it over to someone who knows what to do with it. I…”

I trailed off. (Obviously.)

“What?” Kaz asked.

I didn’t answer. I’d caught something through the Tracker’s Lens. I held it up to my eye and was surprised to see footprints on the ground. There were lots of them, of course. Mine, Bastille’s, even Kiliman’s—though those were fading quickly, since I didn’t know him well. More important, however, I saw three sets of footprints that were very distinct. All led toward a small, inconspicuous door on the far side of the room.

One set of footprints was Grandpa Smedry’s. Another set of yellowish black ones belonged to my mother. The final set, a blazing red-white, was undoubtedly that of my father. All went through the doorway, but there were no sets leading back out.

“Hey,” I said, turning to the nearest Curator. “What’s through that door?”

“That’s where we keep the possessions of those who have been turned into Curators,” the creature said in a raspy voice. Indeed, I saw several Curators cleaning up the remnants of Kiliman’s transformation—the bits of metal and the clothing he had been wearing.

I lowered the Tracker’s Lens. “Come on,” I said to the others. “We almost forgot the reason why we came here in the first place.”

“And what was that reason again?” Kaz asked.

I pointed at the door. “To find out what’s on the other side of that.”

Chapter 20

Hangukmal malhagi mashipshio.

Expectations. They are among the most important things in all of existence. (Which is amusing because, being abstract concepts, you could argue that they don’t even “exist” at all.)

Everything we do, everything we experience, and everything we say is clouded by our expectations. We go to school or work in the mornings because we expect that it will be rewarding. (Or at least we expect that if we don’t, we’ll get in trouble.)