Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones (13 page)

I fell silent.
They gave back my papers when I asked
, I
thought,
and they keep trying to get us to agree to give away
our souls, but don't take them by force. They're bound by rules
.

I should have realized this earlier. You see, everything is bound by rules. Society has laws
,
as does nature,
as do people. Many of society's rules have to do with
expectations
–
which I'
ll
talk about later
–
and therefore
can be bent. A lot of nature's laws, howeve
r
are hard-set.

There are many more of these than you might expect.
In fact, there are even natural laws relating to this book, my
favorite of which is k
nown as the Law of Pure Awesome
ness. This law, of course, simply states that any book I
write is awesome. I'm sorry, but it's a fact.

Who am I to argue with science?

"You," I said, looking toward a Curator. "
Y
our kind have
laws, don't they?"

The Curator paused. "Yes," it finally said. "Do you want
to read them? I can give you a book that explains them in
detail."

"No," I said. "No, I don't want to read about them. I
want to hear about them. From you."

The Curator frowned.

"You have to tell me, don't you?" I said, smiling.

"It is my privilege to do so," the creature said. Then, it
began to smile. "
O
f course, I am going to have to tell them
to you in their original language."

"We are impressed that you speak ancient Greek,"
another said. "You are one who came to us prepared. There
are few that do that, these days."

"But," another whispered, "we doubt that you know
how to speak Elder Faxdarian."

Speak ancient Greek
. . . , I thought, confused. Then it
occurred to me.
They don't know about my Translator's
Lenses! They think that because I understood them back at
the
b
eginning, I must have known the language
.

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said casually, swapping
my Discerner's Lenses back for my Translator's Lenses.

“T
ry me.
”

"Ha," one of them
said in a very odd, strange lan
guage
–
it consisted mostly of spitting sounds. Like
always, the T
r
anslator's Lenses let me hear the words in
English. "The fool thinks he knows our language."

"Give him the rules, then," another hissed.

"First rule," said the one in front of me. "If anyone enters
our domain bearing writing, we may separate them from
their group and demand the writing be given to us. If they
resist, we may take the writing, but we must return copies.
W
e may hold these back for one hour but, unless the items
are requested, can keep them from then on.

"
S
econd rule, we may take the souls of those who enter,
but we can do so only if the souls are offered freely and
lawfully. Souls may be coerced, but not forced.

"Third rule, we may accept or reject a person's request
for a soul contract.
Once the cont
ract
is signed, we must pro
vide the specific book requested, then refrain from taking
their soul for the time specified in the contract. This time
may not be longer than ten hours. If a person takes a book
off its shelf without a contract, we may take their soul after
ten seconds."

I shivered. Ten seconds or ten hours, it didn't seem to
matter m
uch. You still lost your soul. O
f course, in my
experience, there's really only one book in all of the world
that is worth your soul to read - and you're holding it
right now.

I accept credit cards.

"Fourth rule," the Curator continued. "We cannot
directly harm those who enter."

Hence the traps
, I thought.
Technically, when we trip
those, we harm ourselves
. I continued to stare blankly
ahead, acting as if I didn't understand a word they were
saying.

"Fifth rule, when a person gives up their soul and
becomes a Curator, we must deliver up their possessions
to their kin, should a member of the family come to the
Library and request such possessions.

"Sixth rule, and most important of them all. We are the
protectors of knowledge and truth. We cannot lie, if asked
a direct question."

The Curator fell silent.

"That it?" I asked.

If you've never seen a group of undead Curat
o
rs with
flaming eyes j
um
p into the air with surprise . . . okay, I'm
going to assume that you'
ve never seen a group of undead
Curators with flaming eyes j
u
mp into the air with surprise.
Suffice it to say that the experience was quite a
m
using, in a
creepy sort of way.

"He speaks our language!" one hissed.

"Impossible," another said. "Nobody outside the
Library knows it."

"Could he be Tharandes?"

"He would have died millennia ago!"

Bastille and
Kaz were watching me. I winked
at th
e
m.

"Translat
or's Lenses," one of the Curato
rs su
d
denly
hissed. "See!"

"Impossibl
e," another said. "Nobody could have gath
ered the Sands of Rashid."

"But he has . . . ," said a third. "Yes, they must be Lenses
of Rashid!"

The three ghosts looked even more amazed than they
had before.

"What's happening?" Bastille whispered.

"I'll tell you in a minute."

Based on the Curators' own rules, there was one way to
discover if my father really had come to the Library of
Alexandria and given up his soul. "I am the son of Attica
Smedry," I said to the group of creatures. "I've come here
for his personal effects.
Your own laws say you must pro
vide them to me."

There was a moment of silence.

“
We cannot," one of the Curators finally said.

I sighed in relief. If my father had come to the Library,
then he hadn't given up his soul. The Curators didn't have
his personal items.

“
We cannot," the Curat
or continued, skull teeth begin
ning to twist upward in an evil smile. "Because we have
already given them away!'

I felt a stab of shock.
N
o. It can't be
!
“I
don't believe
you," I whispered.

"We cannot lie," another said. "Your father came to us,
and he sold his soul to us. He only wanted three minutes to
read the book, and then he was taken to become one of us.
His pe
r
sonal items have already been claimed
–
someone
did so this very day.”

"Who?" I demanded.
“Who claimed them? My grand
father?"

"No," the Curator said, s
mile deepe
ning. "They were
claimed by Shasta Smedry. Your
mothe
r."

I would lik
e
to
apo
logize
for the introduction to
the last chapter. It occurs
to me that this book, while ran
dom at times, really shouldn't waste its time on anarchist
farm animals, whether or not they have bazookas. It's just
plain silly, and since I abhor silliness, I would like to ask
you to do me a favor.

Flip back two chapters, where the introduction should
now contain the bunny
paragraphs (since you cut them
out of chapter Eleven and pasted them in chapter Ten
instead).
C
ut those paragraphs out again, then go find a
book by
J
ane Austen and paste them in there instead. The
paragraphs will be much happier there, as
J
ane was quite
fond of bunnies and bazookas, or so I'm told. It has to do
with being a proper young lady living in the nineteenth
century. But that's another story entirely.

I walked, head bowed, watching the ground in front of
us for trip wires. I wore the Discerner's Lenses again, the
T
r
anslator's Lenses stowed carefully in their pocket.

I was beginning to accept that my father
–
a
man
I'd never met, but whom I'd traveled halfway across the
world to find
–
might
be dead. Or worse than dead. If
the Curators were telling the truth, Attica's soul had been
ripped away from him, then used to fuel the creation of
another twisted Curator of Alexandria. I would never know
him, never meet him. My father was no more.

Equally disturbing was the knowledge that my mother
was somewhere in these
catacombs. Though I'd always
known her as Ms. Fletcher, her actual name was Shasta.
(Like many Librarians, she was named after a mountain.)

Ms. Fletcher
–
or Shasta, or whatever her name was
–
had
worked as my personal
c
aseworker during my years
as a foster child in the Hushlands. She'd always treated
me harshly, never giving me a hint that she was, in truth,
my blood mother. Did she have something to do with
the twisted, half-human
Scrivener's Bone that was hunt
ing me? How had she known about my father's trip to
Alexandria? And what would she do if she found me here?

S
omething glowed on the ground in front of us, slightly
brighter than the stones around it.

"
S
top," I said, causing B
astille and Kaz to freeze. “Trip wire
, right there."

Bastille knelt down. "So there is," she said, sounding
impressed.

W
e carefully made our way over it, then continued on.
During our last hour of walking, we'd left hallways filled
with scrolls behind. More and more frequently, we were
passing
h
allways filled with bookshelves. These books
were still and musty, with cracking leather-bound covers,
but they were obviously newer than the scrolls.

Every book ever written.
W
as there, somewhere in here,
a room filled with paperback romance novels? The thought
was amusing to me, but I wasn't sure why. The curators
claimed to collect knowledge. It didn't matter to them what
kinds of stories or facts the books contained
–
they
would
gather it all, store it, and keep it safe.
U
ntil someone wanted
to trade their soul for it.

I felt very sorry for the person who
was tricking into
giving up their soul for a trashy romance
novel.

We kept moving. Theoretically Kaz's
Talent was lead
ing us toward Australia, but it seemed to
m
e like we were
just walking aimlessly. Considering the nature of his
T
a
lent, that was probably a good sign.

"Kaz
,”
I said.
"Did you know my mother?"

The short man eyed me. "Sure did. She was . . . well,
is . . . my sister-in-law."

"They never divorced?"

Kaz shook his hea
d. "I'm not sure what happened –
they had a falling-out, obviously. Your father gave you
away to be cared for in foster homes, and your mother
took up position watching over you." He paused, then
shook his head. "We were all there at y
o
ur naming, Al. That
was the day when your father pronounced the Sands of
Rashid upon you as your inheritance. We're still not sure
how he got them to you at the right time, in the right
place."