I blushed. It now seemed silly. ‘I figured . . . well, I thought if I could break gravity, then I could fly.’
Grandpa Smedry chuckled quietly. ‘Break gravity, eh? Very bold of you, very bold. A very Smedry-like attempt! But a little bit beyond the scope of even your power, I’d say. Imagine the chaos if gravity stopped working all across the entire world!’
I don’t have to imagine it. I’ve lived it. But, then, we’ll get to that. Eventually.
There was a scrambling sound, and a figure finally managed to leap from the broken side of the Hawkwind and land on the tower top. Draulin, Bastille’s mother, was an austere woman in silvery armor. A full Knight of Crystallia – a title Bastille had recently lost – Draulin was very effective at the things she did. Those included: protecting Smedrys, being displeased by things, and making the rest of us feel like slackers.
Once on the ground, she was able to assist the vehicle’s other two occupants. Australia Smedry, my cousin, was a plump, sixteen-year-old Mokian girl. She wore a colorful, single-piece dress that looked something like a sheet and – like her brother – had tan skin and dark hair. (Mokians are relatives of the Hushlands’ Polynesian people.) As she hit the floor, she rushed over to Grandpa Smedry and me.
‘Oh, Alcatraz!’ she said. ‘Are you all right? I didn’t see you fall, I was too busy with the explosion. Did you see it?’
‘Um, yes, Australia,’ I said. ‘It kind of blew me off of the Hawkwind.’
‘Oh, right,’ she said, bouncing slightly up and down on her heels. ‘If Bastille hadn’t been watching, we’d have never seen where you hit! It didn’t hurt too much when I dropped you on the top of the tower here, did it? I had to scoop you up in the Hawkwind’s leg and set you down here so that I could land. It’s missing a leg now. I don’t know if you noticed.’
‘Yeah,’ I said tiredly. ‘Explosion, remember?’
‘Of course I remember, silly!’
That’s Australia. She’s not dim-witted, she just has trouble remembering to be smart.
The last person off the Hawkwind was my father, Attica Smedry. He was a tall man with messy hair, and he wore a pair of red-tinted Oculator’s Lenses. Somehow, on him, they didn’t look pinkish and silly like I always felt they did on me.
He walked over to Grandpa Smedry and me. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s all right, I see. That’s great.’
We watched each other awkwardly for a moment. My father didn’t seem to know what else to say, as if made uncomfortable by the need to act parental. He seemed relieved when Bastille charged back up the steps, a veritable fleet of servants following behind, wearing the tunics and trousers that were standard Free Kingdomer garb.
‘Ah,’ my father said. ‘Excellent! I’m sure the servants will know what to do. Glad you’re not hurt, son.’ He walked quickly toward the stairwell.
‘Lord Attica!’ one of the servants said. ‘It’s been so long.’
‘Yes, well, I have returned,’ my father replied. ‘I shall require my rooms made up immediately and a bath drawn. Inform the Council of Kings that I will soon be addressing them in regards to a very important matter. Also, let the newspapers know that I’m available for interviews.’ He hesitated. ‘Oh, and see to my son. He will need, er, clothing and things like that.’
He disappeared down the steps, a pack of servants following him like puppies. ‘Wait a sec,’ I said, standing and turning to Australia. ‘Why are they so quick to obey?’
‘They’re his servants, silly. That’s what they do.’
‘His servants?’ I asked, stepping over to the side of the tower to get a better look at the building below. ‘Where are we?’
‘Keep Smedry, of course,’ Australia said. ‘Um . . . where else would we be?’
I looked out over the city, realizing that we had landed the Hawkwind on one of the towers of the stout black castle I’d seen earlier. Keep Smedry. ‘We have our own castle?’ I asked with shock, turning to my grandfather.
A few minutes of rest had done him some good, and the twinkle was back in his eyes as he stood up, dusting off his soggy tuxedo. ‘Of course we do, lad! We’re Smedrys!’
Smedrys. I still didn’t really understand what that meant. For your information, it meant . . . well, I’ll explain it in the next chapter. I’m feeling too lazy right now.
One of the servants, a doctor of some sort, began to prod at Grandpa Smedry, looking into his eyes, asking him to count backward. Grandpa looked as if he wanted to escape the treatment, but then noticed Bastille and Draulin standing side by side, arms folded, similarly determined expressions on their faces. Their postures indicated that my grandfather and I would be checked over, even if our knights had to string us up by our heels to make it happen.
I sighed, leaning back against the rim of the tower. ‘Hey, Bastille,’ I said as some servants brought me and Grandpa Smedry towels.
‘What?’ she asked, walking over.
‘How’d you get down?’ I said, nodding to the broken Hawkwind. ‘Everyone else was trapped inside when I woke up.’
‘l . . .’
‘She jumped free!’ Australia exclaimed. ‘Draulin said the glass was precarious and that we should test it, but Bastille jumped right on out!’
Bastille shot Australia a glare, but the Mokian girl kept on talking, oblivious. ‘She must have been really worried about you, Alcatraz. She ran right over to your side. I—’
Bastille tried, subtly, to stomp on Australia’s foot.
‘Oh!’ Australia said. ‘We squishing ants?’
Remarkably, Bastille blushed. Was she embarrassed for disobeying her mother? Bastille tried so hard to please the woman, but I was certain that pleasing Draulin was pretty much impossible. I mean, it couldn’t have been concern for me that made her jump out of the vehicle. I was well aware of how infuriating she found me.
But . . . what if she was worried about me? What did that mean? Suddenly, I found myself blushing too.
And now I am going to do everything in my power to distract you from that last paragraph. I really shouldn’t have written it. I should have been smart enough to clam up. I should have flexed my mental muscles and stopped thinking at a snail’s pace.
Have I mentioned how shellfish I can be sometimes?
At that moment, Sing burst up the stairs, saving Bastille and me from our awkward moment. Sing Sing Smedry, my cousin and Australia’s older brother, was an enormous titan of a man. Well over six feet tall, he was rather full-figured. (Which is a nice way of saying he was kinda fat.) The Mokian man had the Smedry Talent for tripping and falling to the ground – which he did the moment he reached the top of the tower.
I swear, I felt the stones themselves shake. Every one of us ducked, looking for danger. Sing’s Talent tends to activate when something is about to hurt him. That moment, however, no danger appeared. Sing looked around, then climbed to his feet and rushed over to grab me out of my nervous crouch and give me a suffocating hug.
‘Alcatraz!’ he exclaimed. He reached out an arm and grabbed Australia, giving her a hug as well. ‘You guys have to read the paper I wrote about Hushlander bartering techniques and advertising methodology! It’s so exciting!’
Sing, you see, was an anthropologist. His expertise was Hushland cultures and weaponry, though, fortunately, this time he didn’t appear to have any guns strapped to his body. The sad thing is, most people I’ve met in the Free Kingdoms – particularly my family – would consider reading an anthropological study to be exciting. Somebody really needs to introduce them to video games.
Sing finally released us, then turned to Grandpa Smedry and gave a quick bow. ‘Lord Smedry,’ he said. ‘We need to talk. There has been trouble in your absence.’
‘There’s always trouble in my absence,’ Grandpa Smedry said. ‘And a fair lot of it when I’m here too. What’s it this time?’
‘The Librarians have sent an ambassador to the Council of Kings,’ Sing explained.
‘Well,’ Grandpa Smedry said lightly, ‘I hope the ambassador’s posterior didn’t get hurt too much when Brig tossed him out of the city.’
‘The High King didn’t banish the ambassador, my lord,’ Sing said softly. ‘In fact, I think they’re going to sign a treaty.’
‘That’s impossible!’ Bastille cut in. ‘The High King would never ally with the Librarians!’
‘Squire Bastille,’ Draulin snapped, standing stiffly with her hands behind her back. ‘Hold your place and do not contradict your betters.’
Bastille blushed, looking down.
‘Sing,’ Grandpa Smedry said urgently. ‘This treaty, what does it say about the fighting in Mokia?’
Sing glanced aside. ‘I . . . well, the treaty would hand Mokia over to the Librarians in exchange for an end to the war.’
‘Debating Dashners!’ Grandpa Smedry exclaimed. ‘We’re late! We need to do something!’ He immediately dashed across the rooftop and scrambled down the stairwell.
The rest of us glanced at one another.
‘We’ll have to act with daring recklessness and an intense vibrato!’ Grandpa Smedry’s voice echoed out of the stairwell. ‘But that’s the Smedry way!’
‘We should probably follow him,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Sing said, glancing about. ‘He just gets so excited. Where’s Lord Kazan?’
‘Isn’t he here?’ Australia said. ‘He sent the Hawkwind back for us.’
Sing shook his head. ‘Kaz left a few days ago, claiming he’d meet back up with you.’
‘His Talent must have lost him,’ Australia said, sighing. ‘There’s no telling where he might be.’
‘Uh, hello?’ Grandpa Smedry’s head popped out of the stairwell. ‘Jabbering Joneses, people! We’ve got a disaster to avert! Let’s get moving!’
‘Yes, Lord Smedry,’ Sing said, waddling over. ‘But where are we going?’
‘Send for a crawly!’ the elderly Oculator said. ‘We need to get to the Council of Kings!’
‘But . . . they’re in session!’
‘All the better,’ Grandpa Smedry said, raising a hand dramatically. ‘Our entrance will be much more interesting that way!’
3
Having royal blood is a really big pain. Trust me, I have some very good sources on this. They all agree: Being a king stinks. Royally.
First off, there are the hours. Kings work all of them. If there’s an emergency at night, be ready to get up, because you’re king. Inconvenient war starting in the middle of the play-offs? Tough. Kings don’t get to have vacations, potty breaks, or weekends.
Instead, they get something else: responsibility.
Of all the things in the world that come close to being crapaflapnasti, responsibility is the most terrible. It makes people eat salads instead of candy bars, and makes them go to bed early of their own free choice. When you’re about to launch yourself into the air strapped to the back of a rocket-propelled penguin, it’s that blasted responsibility that warns you that the flight might not be good for your insurance premiums.