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I frowned, eyeing the thing.
"Many would rather give up what remains of their lives than live in ignorance," it said. "This is only one of the many ways that we gain souls. In truth, some do not care which book they get, for once they become one of us, they can read other books in the Library. By then, of course, their soul is bound here, and they can never leave or share that knowledge. However, the endless knowledge appeals to them."
Why was it talking so loudly? It seemed to be pushing up against me a bit, its coldness prodding me on. As if it were trying to force me to walk faster.
In a moment l realized what was going on. The Curator was a fish. If that were the case, what were the shoes? (Metaphorically speaking, of course. Read back a few chapters if you've forgotten.)
I closed my eyes, focusing. There, I heard it. A quiet voice, calling for help. It sounded like Bastille.
I snapped my eyes open and ran down a side hallway. The ghost cursed in an obscure language – my Translator's Lenses kindly let me know the meaning of the word, and I will be equally kind here in not repeating it, since it involved eggbeaters – and followed me.
I found her hanging from the ceiling between two pillars in the hallway, letting out a few curses of her own. She was tangled up in a strange network of ropes; some of them twisted around her legs, others held her arms. It seemed that her struggles were only making things worse.
"Bastille?" I asked.
She stopped struggling, silver hair hanging down around her face. "Smedry?"
"How did you get up there?" I asked, noticing a Curator hanging in the air upside down beside her. Its robe didn't seem to respond to gravity – but, then, that's rather common for ghosts, I would think.
"Does it matter?" Bastille snapped, flailing about, apparently trying to shake herself free.
"Stop struggling. You're only making it worse."
She huffed, but stopped.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?" I asked.
"Trap," she said, twisting about a bit. "I triggered a trip wire, and the next moment I was hanging up here. If that wasn't bad enough, the burning-eyed freak here keeps whispering to me that he can give me a book that will show me how to escape. It'll just cost my soul!"
"Where's your dagger?" I asked.
"In my pack."
I saw it on the floor a short distance away. I walked over, watching out for trip wires. Inside, I found her crystalline dagger, along with some foodstuffs and – I was surprised to remember - the boots with Grappler's Glass on the bottoms. I smiled.
“I'll be right there," I said, putting the boots on and activating the glass. Then, I proceeded to try walking up the side of the wall.
If you've never attempted this, I heartily recommend it. There's a very nice rush of wind, accompanied by an inviting feeling of vertigo, as you fall backward and hit the ground. You also look something like an idiot – but for most of us, that's nothing new.
"What are you doing?" Bastille asked.
"Trying to walk up to you,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my head.
"Grappler's Glass, Smedry. It only sticks to other pieces of glass."
Ah, right, I thought. Now this might have seemed like a very stupid thing to forget, but you can't blame me. I was suffering from having fallen to the ground and a hit to the head, after all.
“Well, how am I going to get up to you, then?"
"You could just throw me the dagger."
I looked up skeptically. The ropes seemed wound pretty tightly around her. They, however, were connected to the pillars.
"Hang on," I said, walking up to one of the pillars.
“Alcatraz . . .," she said, sounding uncertain. "What are you doing?"
I laid my hand against the pillar, then closed my eyes. I'd destroyed the jet by just touching the smoke . . . could I do something like that here too? Guide my Talent up the pillar to the ropes?
“Alcatraz!" Bastille said. “I don't want to get squished by a bunch of falling pillars. Don't . . ."
I released a burst of breaking power.
"Gak!"
She said this last part as her ropes – which were connected to the pillars – frayed and fell to pieces. I opened my eyes in time to see her grab the one remaining whole piece of rope and swing down to the ground, landing beside me, puffing slightly.
She looked up. The pillar didn't fall on us. I removed my hand.
She cocked her head, then regarded me. "Huh."
"Not bad, eh?"
She shrugged. “A real man would have climbed up and cut me down with the dagger. Come on. We've got to find the others."
I rolled my eyes, but took her thank-you for what it was worth. I walked over as she stuffed the boots and dagger back in her pack, then threw it over her shoulder. We walked down the hallway for a moment, then spun as we heard a crashing sound.
The pillar had finally decided to topple over, throwing up broken chips of stone as it hit the ground. The entire hallway shook from the impact.
A wave of dust from the rubble puffed over us. Bastille gave me a suffering look, then sighed and continued walking.
CHAPTER 10
You may wonder why I hate fantasy novels so much. Or, maybe you don't. That doesn't really matter, because I'm going to tell you anyway.
(Of course, if you want to know how the book ends, you could just skip to the last page – but I wouldn't recommend that. It will prove very disturbing to your psyche.)
Anyway, let's talk about fantasy novels. First, you have to understand that when I say "fantasy novels” I mean books about dieting or literature or people living during the Great Depression. Fantasy novels, then, are books that don't include things like glass dragons, ghostly Curators, or magical Lenses.
I hate fantasy novels. Well, that's not true. I don't actually really hate them. I just get annoyed by what they've done to the Hushlands.
People don't read anymore. And, when they do, they don't read books like this one, but instead read books that depress them, because those books are seen as important. Somehow, the Librarians have successfully managed to convince most people in the Hushlands that they shouldn't read anything that isn't boring.
It comes down to Biblioden the Scrivener's great vision for the world – a vision in which people never do anything abnormal, never dream, and never experience anything strange. His minions teach people to stop reading fun books, and instead focus on fantasy novels. That's what I call them, because those books keep people trapped. Keep them inside the nice little fantasy that they consider to be the "real" world. A fantasy that tells them they don't need to try something new.
After all, trying new things can be difficult.
"We need a plan," Bastille said as we walked the corridors of the Library. “We can't just keep wandering around in here."
"We need to find Grandpa Smedry,” I said, “or my father."
“We also need to find Kaz and Australia, not to mention my mother.” She grimaced a bit at that last part.
And… that’s not everything either, I thought. My father came in here for a reason. He came searching for something.
Something very important.
I'd found a communication from him several months back – it had come with the package that had contained the Sands of Rashid. My father had sounded tense in his letter. He'd been excited, but worried too.
He'd discovered something dangerous. The Sands of Rashid – the Translator's Lenses – had only been the beginning. They were a step toward uncovering something much greater. Something that had frightened my father.
He'd spent thirteen years searching for whatever the something was. That trail had ended here, at the Library of Alexandria. Could he really have come because he'd grown frustrated? Had he traded his soul for the answers he sought, just so that he could finally stop searching?
I shivered, glancing at the Curators, who floated behind us. "Bastille," I said. "You said that one of them spoke to you?"
"Yeah," she s
aid. "Kept trying to get me to borrow a book.” "It spoke to you in English?"
"Well, Nalhallan," she said. "But it's pretty much the same thing. Why?"
"Mine spoke to me in a language I didn't understand.”
"Mine did that at first too," she said. "Several of them surrounded me and searched through my possessions. They grabbed the supply list and several of the labels off of the foodstuffs. Then, they left – all except for that one behind us. It continued to jabber at me in that infuriating language. It was only after I'd been caught that it started speaking Nalhallan."
I glanced again at the Curator s. They use traps, I thought. But not ones that kill - ones that keep people tangled up. They separate everyone who comes in, then they make each one wander the hallways, lost. They talk to us in a language they know we don't understand when they could easily speak in English instead.
This whole place is all about annoying people. The Curators are trying to make us frustrated. All so that we’ll give up and take one of the books they’re offering.
"So," Bastille said. "What's our plan?”
I shrugged. "Why ask me?"
"Because you're in charge, Alcatraz," she said, sighing. "What's your problem, anyway? Half the time you seem ready to give orders and charge about. The other half of the time, you complain that you don't want to be the one who has to make the decisions."
I didn't answer. To be honest, I hadn't really figured out my feelings either.
