(As a side note to this side note: As we found in book one, it is true that most dinosaurs are fine folk and not at all man-eaters. However, there are some notable exceptions, such as the Quesadilla and the infamous Brontësister.)
In my case, ‘wow’ didn’t mean any of these things. It meant something closer to: ‘This place is a total mess!’
‘This place is a total mess!’ I exclaimed.
‘No need to repeat yourself,’ Bastille grumbled. (Bastille speaks fluent woweeze.)
Books were heaped like piles of scrap in an old, rundown junk-yard. There were mountains of them, discarded, abused, and in total disarray. The cavern seemed to extend forever, and the piles of books formed mounds and hills, like sand dunes made from pages and letters and words.
I glanced back at the knights guarding the doorway. ‘Is there some kind of organization to all of this?’ I asked hopefully.
The knight paled in the face. ‘Organization? Like . . . a cataloging system?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘You know, so that we can find stuff easily?’
‘That’s what Librarians do!’ the blond knight said.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Just great. Thanks anyway.’ I sighed, stepping away from the door, which the knights closed behind me. I grabbed a lamp off the wall. ‘Well, let’s go investigate,’ I said to the others. ‘See if we can find anything suspicious.’
We wandered the room, and I tried not to let my annoyance get the better of me. The Librarians had done some horrible things to the Free Kingdoms; it made sense that the Nalhallans would have an irrational fear of Librarian ways. However, I found it amazing that a people who loved learning so much could treat books in such a horrible manner. From the way the tomes were strewn, it seemed to me that their method of ‘archiving’ books was to toss them into the storage chamber and forget about them.
The piles grew larger and more mountainous near the back of the chamber, as if they’d been systematically pushed there by some infernal, literacy-hating bulldozer. I stopped, hands on my hips. I had expected a museum, or at least a den filled with bookshelves. Instead, I’d gotten a teenage boy’s bedroom.
‘How could they tell if anything was missing?’ I asked.
‘They can’t,’ Sing said. ‘They figure if nobody can get in to steal books, then they don’t have to keep them counted or organized.’
‘That’s stupid,’ I said, holding up my light. The chamber was longer than it was wide, so I could see the walls on either side of me. The place wasn’t infinite, like the Library of Alexandria had seemed. It was essentially just one very big room filled with thousands and thousands of books.
I walked back down the pathway between the mounds. How could you tell if anything was suspicious about a place you’d never visited before? I was about to give up when I heard it. A sound.
‘I don’t know, Alcatraz,’ Sing was saying. ‘Maybe we—’
I held up a hand, quieting him. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
I closed my eyes, listening. Had I imagined it?
‘Over there,’ Bastille said. I opened my eyes to find her pointing toward one of the walls. ‘Scraping sounds, like . . .’
‘Like digging,’ I said, scrambling over a stack of books.
I climbed up the pile, slipping on what appeared to be several volumes of the royal tax code, until I reached the top and could touch the wall. It was, of course, made of glass. I pressed an ear against it.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘There are definitely digging sounds coming from the other side. My mother didn’t sneak in here, she snuck into a nearby building! They’re tunneling into the Royal Archives!’
‘Not—’ Sing began.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s not a library. I get it.’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was going to say “Not to disagree, Alcatraz, but it’s impossible to break into this place.”’
‘What?’ I said, sliding back down the pile of books. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s built out of Enforcer’s Glass,’ Bastille said. She was looking better, but still somewhat dazed. ‘You can’t break that, not even with Smedry Talents.’
I looked back at the wall. ‘I’ve seen impossible things happen. My mother has Translator’s Lenses; there’s no telling what she’s learned from the Forgotten Language so far. Maybe they know a way to get through that glass.’
‘Possible,’ Sing said, scratching his chin. ‘Though, to be honest, if I were them, I’d just tunnel into the stairwell out there, then come through the door.’
I glanced at the wall. That did seem likely. ‘Come on,’ I said, rushing over and pulling open the door. The two knights outside glanced in.
‘Yes, Lord Smedry?’ one asked.
‘Someone may be trying to dig into the stairwell,’ I said. ‘Librarians. Get some more troops down here.’
The knights looked surprised, but they obeyed my orders, one rushing up the stairs to do as commanded.
I looked back at Bastille and Sing, who still stood in the room. Soldiers weren’t going to be enough – I wasn’t just going to sit and wait to see what plot the Librarians were going to be putting into effect. Mokia was in trouble, and I had to help. That meant blocking what my mother and the others were doing, perhaps even exposing their double-dealing to the monarchs.
‘We need to figure out what it is in here that my mother wants,’ I said, ‘then take it first.’
Bastille and Sing looked at each other, then glanced back at the ridiculous number of books. I could read their thoughts in their expressions.
Find the thing my mother wanted? Out of this mess? How could anyone find anything in here?
It was then that I said something I never thought I’d hear myself say, no matter how old I grew.
‘We need a Librarian,’ I declared. ‘Fast.’
14
Yes, you heard that right. I – Alcatraz Smedry – needed a Librarian.
Now, you may have gotten the impression that there are absolutely no uses for Librarians. I’m sorry if I implied that. Librarians are very useful. For instance, they are useful if you are fishing for sharks and need some bait. They’re also useful for throwing out windows to test the effects of concrete impact on horn-rimmed glasses. If you have enough Librarians, you can build bridges out of them. (Just like witches.)
And, unfortunately, they are also useful for organizing things.
I hurried up the stairs with Sing and Bastille. We had to push our way past the soldiers who now lined the steps; the men and women held their swords, looking concerned. I’d sent a soldier with a message for my grandfather and another for my father, warning them of what we’d discovered. I’d also ordered one of the knights to send a contingent to search nearby buildings – maybe they’d be able to find the librarian base and the other end of the tunnel. I wasn’t counting on that happening, though. My mother wouldn’t be caught so easily.
‘We need to go fast,’ I said. ‘There’s no telling when my mother will break into that chamber.’
I still felt a little bit sick for needing the help of a Librarian. It was frustrating. Terribly frustrating. In fact, I don’t think I can accurately – through text – show you just how frustrating it was.
But because I love you, I’m going to try anyway. Let’s start by randomly capitalizing letters.
‘We cAn SenD fOr a draGOn to cArry us,’ SinG saId As we burst oUt oF the stAirWeLL and ruSHED tHrough ThE roOm aBovE.
‘ThAT wILl taKe tOO Long,’ BaStiLlE saiD.
‘We’Ll haVe To graB a VeHiCle oFf thE STrEet,’ I sAid.
(You know what, that’s not nearly frustrating enough. I’m going to have to start adding in random punctuation marks too.)
We c!RoS-Sed thrOu?gH t%he Gra##ND e`nt<Ry>WaY at ‘A’ de-aD Ru)n. OnC$e oUts/iDE, I Co*Uld sEe T^haT the suN wa+S nEar to s=Ett=ING – it w.O.u.l.d Onl>y bE a [email protected] of HoU[rs unTi^L the tR}e}atY RATi~FiCATiON ha,pPenEd. We nEeDeD!! To bE QuicK?.?
UnFOrTu()nAtelY, tHE!re weRe no C?arriA-ges on tHe rOa^D for U/s to cOmMan><dEer. Not a ON~e~. THerE w+eRe pe/\Ople wa|lK|Ing aBoUt, BU?t no caRr#iaGes.
(Okay, you know what? That’s not frustrating enough either. Let’s start replacing some random vowels with the letter Q.)
I lqOk-eD abO!qT, dE#sPqrA#te, fRq?sTr/Ated (like you, hopefully), anD aNn\qYeD. Jq!St eaR&lIer, tHqr^E hq.d BeeN DoZen!S of cq?RriqgEs on The rQA!d! No-W tHqRe wA=Sn’t a SqnGl+e oN^q.
‘ThE_rQ!’ I eXclai$mqd, poIntIng. Mqv=Ing do~Wn th_e RqaD! a shoRt diStq++nCe aWay <wAs> a sTrAngq gLaSs cqnTrAPtion. I waSN’t CqrTain What it <\wAs>, bUt It w!qs MoV?ing – aND s%qmewhat quIc:=}Kly. ‘LeT’s G_q gRA?b iT!’
(Okay, you know how frustrated you are trying to read that? Well, that’s about half as frustrated as I was at having to go get a Librarian to help me. Aren’t you happy I let you experience what I was feeling? That’s the sign of excellent storytelling: writing that makes the reader have the same emotions as the characters. You can thank me later.)
We rushed up to the thing walking down the road. It was a glass animal of some sort, a little like the Hawkwind or the Dragonaut, except instead of flying, it was walking. As we rounded it, I got a better view.
I froze in place on the street. ‘A pig?’
Sing shrugged. Bastille, however, rushed toward the pig in a determined run. She looked less dazed, though she still had a very . . . worn-out cast to her. Her eyes were dark and puffy, her face haggard and exhausted. I jogged after her. As we approached the enormous pig, a section of glass on its backside slid away, revealing someone standing inside.
I feel the need to pause and explain that I don’t approve of potty humor in the least. There has already been far too much of it in this book, and – trifecta or not – it’s just not appropriate. Potty humor is the literary equivalent of potato chips and soda. Appealing, perhaps, but at the same time, dreadful and in poor taste. I will have you know that I don’t stand for such things and – as in the previous volumes of my narrative – intend to hold this story to rigorous quality standards.
‘Farting barf-faced poop!’ a voice exclaimed from inside the pig’s butt.
(Sigh. Sorry. At least that’s another great paragraph to try working into a random conversation.)
The man standing in the pig’s posterior was none other than Prince Rikers Dartmoor, Bastille’s brother, son of the king. He still wore his royal blue robes, his red baseball cap topping a head of red hair.
‘Excuse me?’ I said, stopping short outside the pig. ‘What was that you said, Your Highness?’
‘I hear that Hushlanders like to use synonyms for excrement as curses!’ the prince said. ‘I was trying to make you feel at home, Alcatraz! What in the world are you doing in the middle of the street?’
‘We need a ride, Rikers,’ Bastille said. ‘Fast.’
‘Explosive diarrhea!’ the prince exclaimed.