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“Why?”
“Because I’m not an Oculator.”
“I’m not a pigeon either,” I said. “But I can talk about feathers if I want.”
She eyed me. “That’s a really bad metaphor, Smedry.”
“I’m good at those kind.”
Feathers. Much less comfortable than scales. Glad I’m a fish instead of a bird. (You haven’t forgotten about that, have you?)
“Look,” I said. “What you know could be important. I… I think the thing that flew that jet is still alive.”
“It fell from the sky!” she said.
“So did we.”
“It didn’t have a dragon to glide on.”
“No, but it did have a face half-made from metal screws and springs.”
She froze, bottle halfway to her lips.
“Ha!” I said. “You do know something.”
“Metal face,” she said. “Was it wearing a mask?”
I shook my head. “The face was made out of bit of metal. I saw the creature before, on the airfield. When I ran away, I felt… pulled backward. It was hard to move.”
“Voidstormer’s Lenses,” she said absently. “The opposite of those Windstormer’s Lenses you have.”
I patted the Windstormer’s Lenses in my pocket. I’d almost forgotten about those. With my last Firebringer’s Lens now broken, the Windstormer’s Lenses were my only real offensive Lenses. Besides them, I only had my Oculator’s Lenses, my Courier’s Lenses, and – of course – my Translator’s Lenses.
“So, what has a metal face, flies jets, and can use Lenses?” I asked. “Sounds like a riddle.”
“An easy one,” Bastille said, kneeling down, speaking quietly. “Look, don’t tell my mother you got this from me, but I think we’re in serious trouble.”
“When are we not?”
“More so now,” she said. “You remember that Oculator you fought in the Library?”
“Blackburn? Sure.”
“Well,” she said, “he belonged to a sect of Librarians known as the Dark Oculators. There are other sects, though – four, I think – and they don’t get along very well. Each sect wants to be in charge of the whole organization.”
“And this guy chasing me…?”
“One of the Scrivener’s Bones,” she said. “It’s the smallest sect. Other Librarians tend to avoid the Scrivener’s Bones, except when they need them, because they have… odd habits.”
“Like?”
“Like ripping off parts of their bodies, then replacing them with Alivened materials.”
I stared at her for a moment. We fish do that sometimes. We can’t blink, after all. “They do what?”
“Just what I said,” Bastille whispered. “They’re part Alivened. Twisted half human, half monsters.”
I shivered. We’d fought a couple of Alivened in the downtown library. Those were made of paper, but they’d been far more dangerous than that could possibly sound. It was fighting them that lost Bastille her sword.
Alivening things – bringing inanimate objects to life with Oculatory power – is a very evil art. It requires the Oculator to give up some of his or her own humanity.
“The Scrivener’s Bones usually work on commission,” Bastille said. “So, another Librarian hired it.”
My mother, was my immediate thought. She’s the one who hired him. I avoided thinking about her, since doing so tended to make me sick, and there’s no use being sick unless you can get out of school for it.
“He used Lenses,” I said. “So this Scrivener’s Bone is an Oculator?”
“Not likely,” Bastille said.
“Then how?”
“There’s a way to make a Lens that anyone can use,” she whispered very quietly.
“There is?” I asked. “Well, why in the world don’t we have more of those?”
Bastille glanced to the side. “Because, idiot,” she hissed. “You have to sacrifice an Oculator and use his blood to forge one.”
“Oh,” I said.
“He was probably using a blood-forged Lens,” she said, “hooked somehow into the cockpit glass so that it could fire out at us. That sounds like something the Scrivener’s Bones would do. They like mixing Oculatory powers with Hushlander technology.”
This talk of blood-forged Lenses should mean something to you. Finally, you may understand why I end up finding my way to an altar, about to get sacrificed. What Bastille neglected to mention was that the power of the Oculator who was killed had a direct effect on how powerful the blood-forged Lens was. The more powerful the Oculator, the more awesome the Lens.
And I, as you might have realized, was very, very powerful.
Bastille left to cut down more branches. I sat quietly. It was probably just in my head, but I thought I could feel something off in the distance. That same dark sense I’d felt escaping from the airfield and fighting the jet.
That’s silly, I told myself, shivering. We’ve traveled hundreds of miles using Kaz’s Talent. Even if that Scrivener’s Bone did survive, it would take in days to get here.
So I assumed.
A short time later I lay beneath a canopy of fronds, my black sneakers off and wrapped in my jacket to form a pillow. The others dozed, and I tried to do likewise. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d been told.
It seemed like it all must be related somehow. The way the Lenses worked. Smedry Talents. The fact that the blood of an Oculator could make a Lens that worked for anyone. The connection between silimatic energy and Oculatory energy.
All connected. But, it was too much for me to figure out, considering the fact that I was just a fish. So, I went to sleep.
Which is pretty hard to do when you don’t have eyelids.
CHAPTER 8
All right, so I’m not a fish. I admit it. What? Figured that out on your own, did you? You’re so clever. What gave it away? The fact that I’m writing books, the fact that I don’t have fins, or the fact that I’m a downright, despicable liar?
Anyway, there was a purpose in that little exercise – one beyond my standard purpose. (Which is, of course, to annoy you.) I wanted to prove something. In the last chapter, I told you that I was a fish – but I also mentioned that I had black sneakers. Do you remember?
Here’s the thing. That was a lie; I didn’t have black sneakers. I have never owned a pair of black shoes. I was wearing white shoes; I told you about them back in Chapter One.
Why does it matter? Let’s talk about something called misdirection. In the last chapter, I told a big lie, then made you focus on it so much that you ignored the smaller lie. I said I was a fish. Then, I mentioned my black shoes in passing, so you didn’t pay attention to them.
People use this strategy all the time. They drive fancy cars to distract others from their having a small house. They wear bright clothing to distract from their being – unfortunately – rather bland people. They talk really loudly to distract you from their having nothing to say.
This is what has happened to me. Everywhere I go in the Free Kingdoms, people are always excited to congratulate me, praise me, or ask for my blessing. They’re all looking at the fish. There are so focused on the big thing – that I supposedly saved the world from the Librarians – that they completely ignore the facts. They don’t see who I am, or what my presumed heroism cost.
So, that’s why I’m writing my autobiography. I want to teach you to ignore the fish and pay attention to the shoes. Fish and shoes. Remember that.
“Alcatraz!” a voice called, waking me up. I opened bleary eyes, then sat up.
I’d been dreaming. About a wolf. A metal wolf, running, charging, getting closer.
He’s coming, I thought. The hunter. The Scrivener’s Bone. He’s not dead.
“Alcatraz!” I looked toward the sound and was met by a stunning sight. My grandfather was standing just a short distance away.
“Grandpa Smedry!” I said, climbing to my feet. Indeed, it
was the old man, with his bushy white mustache and tuft of white hair running around the back of his head.
“Grandpa!” I said, rushing forward. “Where have you been?!”
Grandpa Smedry looked confused, then glanced over his shoulder. He cocked his head at me. “What?”
I slowed. Why was he wearing Tracker’s Lenses instead of his Oculator’s Lenses? In fact, looking more closely, I saw that he had on some very odd clothing. A pink tunic and brown trousers.
“Alcatraz?” Grandpa Smedry asked. “What are you talking about?” His voice was far too feminine. In fact it sounded just like…
“Australia?” I asked, stupefied.
